


Down, down under the earth goes another lover

by Vaultdweller



Series: Under the earth [1]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Eve is a badass, Eventual Smut, F/F, How long will it be?, Medium Burn, Spent too much time listening to Yeah Yeah Yeahs and writing this, we'll see about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 02:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 90,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21129026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaultdweller/pseuds/Vaultdweller
Summary: Eve Polastri is an intelligence officer-turned-whistleblower who has uncovered a huge secret. Villanelle is the down-on-her-luck assassin hired to kill her.Together they duel, they dance and, piece by piece, they destroy each other to be built anew.





	1. Gold lion's gonna tell me where the light is

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just going to leave this here and back away slowly

“McDonald’s. What’ll you have?” 

The reply from the front seat is muffled thanks to the sweatshirt she’s hiding under, but Villanelle perks up anyway, grateful that this show finally seems to be getting on the road, literally, as the car jerks forward up to the next window. The driver, a uni student delivering for Uber Eats, no doubt to pay for the extensive collection of something called Funko Pop! figures littered across her back seat, seems to have a complicated relationship with both her gas and brake, leading Villanelle to alternate somewhere between seasickness and whiplash for the entirety of the trip. 

But that’s no matter now, the time to strike is imminent. And not a moment too soon, Villanelle thinks as she twirls a mother-of-pearl handled knife. That is, if her spine hasn’t fused together while she’s been crammed in the space between the front and back seats of this late 90’s model Volvo for the last two hours. Now that would be embarrassing. 

Villanelle tugs the sweatshirt down off her face ever so slightly, enough to watch the exchange of food through the driver’s side window but not enough to alert the person working the drive-thru that hey, did you know there’s a crazy lady in your back seat? It’s a delicate balance, but when the driver, Lucy according to her driver profile, pulls over to check the order, Villanelle knows she has just a short window. She tugs the rest of the sweatshirt off and springs forward like a striking viper, her spine mercifully in working order. 

Startled by the commotion in her back seat, Lucy sees the flash of a knife and stiffens. A mess of purple hair obscures her face but Villanelle catches a pair of dark brown eyes in the rearview mirror, wide and scared, like an animal in a trap. 

“Oh shit, they said this might happen at orientation,” Lucy spits out, raising both hands in the air slowly and turning slightly to face her backseat assailant. 

“Listen, I’m not like, a pizza delivery driver. I don’t actually have any money in here, it’s all on the app. All I have is the food.” 

“I don’t want your food,” Villanelle answers simply. 

“Oh thank god, I really don’t think I could take another bad review.” 

“I want to kill the man you’re delivering it to.” 

Lucy takes a moment to process that information and Villanelle watches the wheels of her brain spin, shift with all the clunky finesse of her Volvo, then change gears. 

“Ohhkay,” she answers after a beat, putting her hands down and unbuckling her seatbelt. 

Villanelle raises an eyebrow, struck by the ease with which this woman just settled into being complicit in the murder of her customer. But, she supposes, save assassins like herself and prostitutes, service workers are probably most familiar with the worst humanity has to offer. She’d probably kill a customer with her bare hands if it meant she never had to deliver another quarter-pounder with cheese for a 50-cent tip. 

They swap spots and Villanelle finds the front seat only marginally more comfortable than her hiding spot on the floor. She manages to squeal the tires while both reversing and pulling forward and feels Lucy wince all the way from her spot in the back seat, no doubt adding up all the deliveries she’ll have to take to afford new tires. On the main road, Villanelle keeps an eye on her in the rearview mirror out of an abundance of caution. 

“What?” Lucy, it seems, knows she’s being watched. 

“Nothing,” Villanelle answers evenly. “It’s just, usually there’s more, um, convincing? Needed. This is … irregular.” 

“Listen,” Lucy starts. “I frankly don’t give — nor am I paid to give — a shit what happens to this guy after I deliver his food and he enters a tip. Hell, you get me a 5 star review and we can rinse and repeat this all night.” 

_Wow. _ Villanelle smiles, a genuine smile, not a sneer. She likes Lucy, she decides. 

They pull up to the target’s house and Villanelle cuts the lights. She reaches inside her jacket and pulls out a Polaroid-sized headshot of a rather bland looking man — Frank. It’s just a headshot, but she can tell Frank is a stodgy man, like a pudding when the fruits all sunk the bottom. Ugh. 

It used to be more glamorous, Villanelle sighs, this business of killing. Murdering international intelligence officials used to involve an air of mystique. There were more balls, soirees with pretty dresses and pretty people and all the decadent food she could smuggle out in her purse. Before she’d tumbled down the ladder and hit every rung on the way down.

Now, she sniffs, she’s dealing in McDonald’s and cars that smell like grease and stale air fresheners. She has to take her thrills where she can get them these days. 

She lifts the lid and spits in Frank’s drink. For propriety’s sake.

The front door pulls open as Villanelle makes it to the steps, Frank obviously watching them from the foyer and entirely more excited than a grown man should be about a cheeseburger. He’s exactly as stodgy as Villanelle pictured. 

“Frank, right? I have your quarter-pounder with cheese and a lemonade,” Villanelle offers lamely because she obviously should have asked Lucy how this part of the transaction was supposed to go. If this is weird, though, Frank doesn’t notice and Villanelle has a passing thought that this may be the most normal interaction he’s had with a person all day. 

“Right. I uh … I have some money on the counter for a tip, if you don’t mind coming inside for a moment. I know cash is better than however that app works.” Villanelle listens as his voice disappears into the house and follows casually, closing the front door behind her. The foyer gives way to a claustrophobic hallway, both walls covered in photos of a rather pleasant if not entirely bland looking woman posing against various cookie cutter English countryside backdrops. Frank is in some of them too, looking more like a dead fish than a husband. 

“It’s kind of sad, isn’t it?” 

For once, Villanelle is caught entirely off guard. She turns to Frank, who’s standing just beyond the hallway at the kitchen island, fiddling nervously with a few bills. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“A grown man ordering McDonald’s takeaway for dinner every night. Delivery, no less.” 

It’s not really in Villanelle’s job description to make judgements about the people she kills, but this might be the closest to a mercy killing she’s undertaken in a long time. Probably ever. Poor Frank. 

“My wife died, a few months ago. I never learned to cook — that was always her thing,” he continues, doing absolutely nothing to change Villanelle’s belief that he is a sad, sad man. Sheepishly, he reaches out to her, more than enough bills folded in his hand to cover an order that couldn’t have cost more than a tenner and Villanelle is struck by the feeling that he’s paying more for her time than the food. She swallows down a sneer and it curdles in her stomach like milk. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, deciding in that exact moment how Frank the MI5 officer will die. 

Still somehow unaware of his fate, he turns his back to the predator standing in the threshold of his kitchen, blocking off his only feasible escape route. While sipping the lemonade, he reaches into the paper bag and Villanelle can hear the rustling as she closes her eyes and tips her head back. She inhales, deep and full. Her senses are coming alive. It’s time for the hunt. 

Her eyes slide open and she levels a heavy look at Frank, who must feel someone is watching him by the way he stiffens. Right about now, Villanelle knows, he’s thinking this is highly irregular for a routine fast food delivery. Soon, he’ll be thinking he’s going to die.

His breath catches as she uncurls the garrote wire she keeps tucked in her jacket for just such an occasion. The air goes out of the room and they are left in a vacuum — predator and prey. Villanelle’s mouth waters. 

“You’re not the delivery driver, are you?” Frank asks slowly, turning to face Villanelle as she sizes him up. He’s taller than she is. She’ll need leverage. 

Instead of answering, Villanelle’s lips curl into a smile, full and leonine, her canines exposed in a way that speaks to the cornered rabbit in Frank on a primal level. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, taking in every movement, every detail. Her breathing is even but her heart is pounding, priming her muscles with the oxygen they’ll need to make a kill. There’s only one choice left now — fight or run. Rabbits like Frank, they always run. 

Villanelle likes it better that way. 

With a sloppy movement Frank darts to his right, crossing the kitchen and sprinting down another close quarters hallway. In a few strides, Villanelle is easily upon him, kicking his calf with her heavy boot and sending him down to one knee. Trapped and desperate, Frank grabs a heavy silver candlestick from an end table and turns back to swing at his pursuer with his right arm. Villanelle ducks the movement easily, then uses his shoulder and leg as leverage to swing onto his back, strong thighs around his waist keeping her in place as her left hand comes around to enclose his throat in the garrote wire. 

Off balance, with an assassin on his back, Frank starts to pitch forward, then catches himself against the wall. Villanelle feels his strength starts to wane and she lets the wire do most of the work. She wants him weak, but not dead. Not yet. She’s not done with him. 

When Frank finally falls onto his hands and knees Villanelle slides neatly off his back, twisting the wire into a makeshift leash and tugging him along back into the kitchen. He isn’t exactly dead weight, but he is heavy and Villanelle scans the room for her next move. Her eyes land on a hook at the top of a door, presumably to a bathroom or closet, and she smiles. Tying a loop in the wire, she drags Frank toward the door and, with a heave, slips the loop onto the hook, leaving Frank to hang with his back against the door, not quite high enough to choke him fully, but enough to keep him quiet. 

“Oh, Frank,” she purrs, her accent licking the “r” like a flame. “You tried to play with people much bigger than you, without realizing just how very small you are.” 

Frank lets out a choking sound. No doubt, Villanelle thinks, he’s realized by now he’s going to die. His hands paw at the garrote wire around his neck but he can’t quite stretch himself enough to reach the hook. This is really good work, Villanelle admires. Wasted, really, on a man like Frank. 

“There are people in this world who live exceptionally boring lives, Frank,” she continues, once again twirling her knife, pacing in front of her prey. “They eat. They sleep. They shit. They add nothing to this world.” She turns on a heel and takes a step forward, knife tipped ominously toward Frank’s chest. 

“They exist. They do not live.” A step. 

“Breathe.” Another step. 

“Struggle.” The knife is caressing Frank’s cheek now and Villanelle can see her wolfish grin reflected back at her in his eyes, the last thing he’ll ever see. 

“Sometimes, the most beautiful thing a person can do is die. For you, Frank, you pudding-looking man, this will be true.” 

Faced with the choice to participate in the end of his life with his pride intact, Frank wholeheartedly rejects the offer. He’s sobbing now, before her knife has even made its first clean cut, before she’s even drawn blood. Villanelle rolls her eyes. She hates when they sob. It almost takes the fun out of it. 

Almost. 

****

A blaring bubblegum pop song from deep under her pillow wrenches Villanelle back to the land of the living, or at least living-adjacent. The scratchy hotel sheets reject her efforts to burrow into them for at least the next six weeks like … what was that American myth? Woodchuck Day? The translation gets muddled as she half slips back into a dream where she’s swinging an oversized mallet at lumpy-looking men who keep popping up from the ground. 

Then the sound is back again and Villanelle is awake enough to piece together that it’s her phone and oh, she’s irritated now. It’s probably not even noon and she should be crawling out of the arms of a beautiful woman like a real international assassin, not answering her fucking phone. She reaches for it and blindly accepts the call, expecting Konstantin. 

“Villanelle.” 

The voice on the other end is immediate and stern and is certainly not Konstantin, not unless he’d become slightly more feminine in the week she's been gone. Only slightly though. Her name is given, not as a question, but a statement. A fact. Whoever is on the other end knows who she’s talking to, but no one other than Konstantin is supposed to have this number. Villanelle feels a tingle at the back of her neck, like she’s being watched. 

“My name is Carolyn Martens. MI6. Russia desk. The man you murdered yesterday was my employee.” 

Villanelle’s eyes widen at that. She should have checked the number before answering. Stupid. Konstantin is always warning her about that. She ignored him because she likes playing with the scam callers but here he is, right, and she didn’t even get to have any fun. She opens her mouth to say … something. Deny maybe? Are they past that? Either way, she needs to get out of this. 

“Don’t bother speaking. You’re going to listen.” The voice beats her to it and Villanelle feels her mouth closing, not entirely of her own volition. “Let me help you understand how serious this is.” 

“You’re at the Ace Hotel in London. Room 107. You checked in at 9:45 p.m. last night. You ordered a gin and tonic and a chef’s salad from room service, an … odd, combination. You then inhaled a bag of M&Ms from the minibar, watched a news broadcast for 20 minutes, then fell asleep without brushing your teeth. And there’s now a room service tray by your door with a breakfast order of sausage, pancakes and a grapefruit.” 

Villanelle’s blood runs cold and she’s up like a shot, silk robe only half tied as she rushes to the window, pushing aside the blinds to peer out, looking for, well, something. Anything that would give a clue as to what the fuck is going on here. She’s all adrenaline now, can feel walls closing in, escape routes closing up and half expects to see the red dot of a sniper scope over her heart. 

“Now listen to me and listen well — there is only one way out of this for you, and that is to do exactly as I say. If you even think of crossing us, every officer in a five-mile radius will be at your hotel room door and you’ll be back in that gulag where you came from. Only this time no one will be coming to rescue you. I think we both know that.” 

Villanelle is pacing now, circling the room like a caged leopard waiting for the bliss of a tranquilizer dart, to be put out of her misery. Her options are ... well ... she has no options. Unless she wants to be arrested, and she is _ not _going back to that fucking prison. 

“I’ll take your silence as agreement. Really, Villanelle, this is the best way, for all of us.” For a moment the voice sounds almost maternal, flirts with it, or the idea of what Villanelle thinks maternal might be. She doesn’t have much experience. Clearly, if she’s connecting ‘maternal’ and ‘flirting’ in her mind. “On your room service tray you’ll find an envelope. In the envelope, a target. Kill them, send proof, and this unfortunate business goes away. I can go back to hunting real threats, and you can go back to, well, whatever it is you do now. You have one hour to decide.” The line goes dead. 

If Villanelle was just a tad more suspicious as a person, she might have had concerns about this being a trap. After all, it is a bit … convenient. She murders an MI5 agent and MI6 just, offers her a job? Why not just hire her in the first place and save the paperwork? 

But the motivations of others are of little concern to Villanelle, who is a creature purely of the moment, wide awake like a flame, ready to caress or engulf, whichever strikes her fancy, and able to be contained but never truly controlled. Trying to parse out what others want is … not fun. And boring, usually. No one’s desires are as endlessly entertaining to Villanelle as her own. 

This, though. This is interesting. She pads over to the hotel room door, almost despite herself, like she isn’t quite in control of her limbs. She pulls it open and sure enough there’s a room service tray with her breakfast, no doubt going cold. Villanelle couldn’t care less, she has eyes only for the white envelope tucked between the platter and her grapefruit. Snatching it quickly, she retreats back into the room and tears it open like a child on Christmas. 

Inside is a Polaroid of an Asian woman in her 40’s, her face turned slightly away from the camera, to the right. Her hair is loose and cascades in full, wild curls around her face. Her eyes are deep, intelligent, but … there’s an edge to this woman. Villanelle can feel it, even through this shitty Polaroid. Feels it press into her chest. There’s a name under the photo: Eve Polastri. 

Eve Polastri is beautiful, Villanelle thinks. Exquisite. 

It’s a shame she must die.


	2. I’m calling out, I’m calling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again

Eve Polastri is having an out-of-body experience. 

That’s the only possible explanation for what is occurring here, on this, the 5th floor of a rather drab-looking office building that allegedly houses counter-terrorism operations for MI6. Not that Eve has seen any actual counter-terrorism occurring inside these walls. Counters, sure, there’s plenty of those, mostly covered in crumbs because intelligence officers are universally slobs, apparently. And terrorism? Eve is pretty sure the endless requisitions for toothpaste she’s required to sign off on day in and day out for 40 hours every week count as some sort of terrorism somewhere. Probably one of those Nordic countries where they don’t even keep prisoners in cells. 

A notification slides across her computer screen. Another report has just hit her inbox. Oh joy. 

If it’s another toothpaste request from Baghdad headquarters, Eve swears she’s going to go postal and take this whole floor down with her. She has an industrial grade stapler with like, 5,000 staples in it and if it doesn’t jam they all better watch out. 

She quickly gives the report a skim, eyes landing on the words “toothpaste” and “Baghdad” in quick succession. 

That’s it, then. Her life is over. She’s had a good run.

Well, an okay run, really. 

Luckily Eve is saved from committing what would probably the slowest massacre in history by a well-timed vibration from her phone. Giving a sly glance around to make sure no one’s watching, she tips the phone on her desk toward her, the facial recognition capturing and storing what is surely a horrifically unflattering angle before showing her the notification in exchange. 

Kenny has just played a new word in their Words with Friends match. Perhaps today isn’t a today isn’t a total loss after all. 

Before she can swipe to the app, Eve’s train of thought is interrupted by the always lovely and totally inconvenient Elena. More specifically, her backside which, while also lovely, now sits perched atop of Eve’s desk just a hair away from her hand and phone. Eve flips her phone face down, leaning back in her office chair to mimic Elena’s posture — arms folded — and gives her a curious look. 

“I don’t know about you, but this has got to be the day from hell,” Elena leans in, whispering but barely. “I’m about to swallow some printer toner and see if I can get sent down to medical.” 

“Don’t do that,” Eve retorts. “That stuff is expensive. They’ll probably just try and get it back. Taxpayer dollars and all that."

Elena hums and lets her eyes sweep over Eve’s desk, unabashedly snooping for signs Eve is holding out on her, hoarding the actually interesting work she was promised when she was recruited to the service. Okay, maybe it wasn’t an explicit promise, but it was implied. Right? 

“I know what you’re doing,” Eve deadpans. “I don’t have anything for you. Unless you want half a dozen requests for toothpaste.” 

“You get those too? What could they possibly be using it for?” 

To distract us, Eve thinks.

“I have no idea.” 

“Like, you’d think super white teeth would be a detriment in these shady spy operations. What if they’re sneaking around at night and one of them smiles? It’s all over!” 

Eve barks out a laugh at this but quickly covers her mouth as heads around the office snap to look at the pair, judging. There’s no laughing in intelligence work, didn’t you know? 

“I think you just discovered the fatal flaw in the British intelligence scheme, Elena,” Eve replies once everyone’s gone back to minding their own business. “Now they’ll either promote you or make you disappear.”

“Like they did to that whistleblower,” Elena mumbles before coming back to herself again. “But,” she claps her hands together, eyes alight and excited in a way that tells Eve it’s time to run very fast in the opposite direction, office etiquette be damned. “That’s not why I’m here.” 

“Uh huhhh,” Eve offers slowly. 

“No, I’m here because you,” Elena points a finger now, “have been avoiding us. No, don’t try to deny it. It’s been months since you’ve come down to the pub with us after work and I can’t even remember the last time you brought it home with Disney karaoke and that is a shame. A shame!” 

Eve tries to stutter out a reply but Elena will not be contained. 

“And it’s fine, you know. Whatever. Just super rude and a little insulting. But we’re not talking about me here, we’re talking about you. And I have the solution - 

I’m going to set you up with someone.” 

Eve chokes on … air? Spit? Both? She coughs into her hands as, once again, everyone in the infuriatingly small office is looking at her because doesn’t she know there’s no bodily functions allowed in intelligence work? Really Eve, how long have you worked here? 

Elena wordlessly slides a glass of water across the desk but Eve can see the stupid little smug look dancing around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. She is just so pleased with herself to have gotten a reaction out of Eve, and why does she hang out with people so hell bent on torturing her? 

“I’m sorry?” Eve finally manages to cough out. 

“You heard me,” Elena answers simply. “I’m setting you up with someone. Julie, the new secretary in accounting, seems nice. I bet she likes Disney, too.” 

That gets Eve’s attention. She can feel her heart pounding in her ears. 

“Julie?” she starts. 

“Oh don’t be like that Eve,” Elena continues, unaware of the absolute meltdown happening inside Eve’s brain. “It’s 2019 and no one’s really straight anymore. I mean, you know I’d give my left hand for a night with Carolyn Martens. Not my right hand, though, cause you know, I’d need that …” 

“No -” Eve cuts her off. “That’s not it. I don’t have time to unpack that. You said this, Julie? She’s new?” 

Elena nods her head slowly and Eve’s mind is racing way too fast for the pace of this conversation because she needs to know and she needs to know now.

“We don’t hire new people, Elena,” Eve says. “We haven’t brought in someone new since … well, you, two years ago. We haven’t brought someone in to run Frank’s department and he’s been dead two weeks.” 

“I guess?” Elena answers, shrugging her shoulders like this just a weird HR decision and not a life altering moment for Eve. “Maybe she was recruited or something.” 

“Recruited for being a secretary?” Eve is incredulous. 

“I mean, maybe? I didn’t want to say it, but she does have really nice tits so -” 

“I have to go.” Eve stands abruptly, grabbing her phone and her purse before turning on a heel so fast her chair is left spinning. Elena is going to kill her, Eve thinks absently as she books it to the ladies room. There’s no way she doesn’t think Eve is an absolute lunatic after that exchange and soon she’ll be asking questions and Eve just doesn’t know if she can handle it, can hurt her best friend like that …

The bathroom is mercifully empty as Eve barges in, or at least it appears that way. She posts up at a sink, breath coming in heaves as she tries to steady herself, a hand on each side of the bowl. She’s reminded of the pretty girls she’d run into in the bathrooms when she’d go out to a club, always shimmering and impossibly poised while hurling their guts out into the sink, then calmly washing it down the drain and heading back out the door like nothing happened. They’d almost always stop to compliment her hair on their way out and Eve’s cheeks would burn from the attention. 

The image helps steady Eve and she finds a center, there, staring into the bathroom sink. Slowly, she looks up, taking in her reflection in the mirror. She looks like a rabbit, she thinks, cornered and afraid and her heart pounding so, so fast. A predator would find her in a second, flush her out of her den and into the open and that would be it. She pulls her hair out of its bun and it unfurls onto her shoulders in unruly waves. 

A bathroom stall door swings open behind her and Eve feels like she’s about to shatter into a million pieces, her thoughts grinding together like glass. The other woman keeps a polite distance and Eve wills her eyes to stay focused on her own reflection. _ For the love of everything _ , Eve thinks, _ don’t look over _but she’s lost already as soon as she has the thought and when the other woman’s sink turns on, Eve’s head turns toward the sound, entirely out of her control. 

The other woman is staring at her, full on, and Eve feels like a thief in the night caught in a spotlight. She makes no pretense of washing her hands, only watches Eve, wide and blinding, taking her in the way an anaconda swallows a rabbit whole. 

Her eyes are hazel and bright. They shine in the infuriatingly dull bathroom like they’re lit from within by a flame. Eve stares back, captivated by this calm in the storm raging through her life. She should run. Some voice way down deep, left over from when humans were still prey, shouts at her to run. Screams itself bloody. Fuck this, fuck MI6, fuck Elena, fuck her job, fuck her apartment and her life. Run away. 

Eve doesn’t run. She studies. 

Her honey blonde hair is pulled back into a braid. She’s slim and clearly fit, in her mid-20’s at most. Her cheekbones are high and delicate, as if they’re cut from glass, but Eve has no doubt, can see how they would harden. Her jaw is strong and Eve can just pick out a mole or two near her ear. She’s still now, but Eve can see coiled strength in her limbs. Her eyes are catlike, and Eve’s gaze trails down over full lips and, admittedly, great cleavage until they land on a name tag — Julie Michaels. 

Julie. 

Eve’s mouth goes dry. Wrenching herself from the other woman’s stare, she turns back to the mirror and begins furiously gathering fistfuls of her hair to pull back — better to run with, my dear, because that’s all she can hear inside her own head. That voice telling her to run, run, run, run away, run, run, run, run …

“Wear it down.” Julie’s voice cuts through all the alarm and panic in Eve’s mind as she walks behind her and toward the bathroom door. Inexplicably, Eve’s hands stop responding to her commands, instead responding to Julie like she’s some puppeteer and Eve just a dancing marionette. She opens the door, giving Eve another long, curious look before leaving, the door sliding shut in her wake. Eve can hear her heels click against the office floors as she walks away, some proof that there’s a world outside this liminal bathroom space. 

Okay, Eve thinks to herself, staring back at her reflection. That was … okay. 

Somehow she remembers the reason she retreated to the bathroom in the first place, digging her phone out of her purse, letting it unlock and swiping to Words with Friends. 

Kenny’s played a new word, the game gleefully informs her. The word? 

Slit. 

Eve swallows. 

Slit? Eve’s brain is struggling to catch up, her center of gravity swirling somewhere with her equilibrium, thrown off entirely by her encounter with Julie, whoever she is. 

Like, a throat slit? 

Oh boy, Eve thinks. 

She ducks out of the bathroom, having spent about five minutes longer hiding in there than could ever be necessary, even in an emergency.

She could head back to her desk, continue working like nothing happened. Process reports. Do her job. 

But that’s not really how Eve’s life has been going, especially in these last six months. She has to know and she has to know now. 

She detours down to the staff lockers, a hardly used cellar that is actually empty, though Eve still half expects someone to jump out as she twirls her locker combination and shimmies it open. On the shelf inside sits a cellphone — an early model, one that still flips open, from before phones were connected to the internet 24x7. A brick, really, albeit one that’s very satisfying to close at the end of a conversation. 

Eve snatches the phone out of the locker and flips it open. The screen asks her for a password and she types in “S, L, I, T” and hits enter. 

Rendered on the screen is a, very pixelated, contract. Eve furiously taps the ‘down’ button, moving through the document which, at first glance, appears to be written in extremely bland legalese. 

Eve doesn’t deal in first glances, though. She knows what this is — a contract on her life. 

She scrolls to the next document, a report on the person contracted to take her life. To kill her. There’s words there, but Eve is only interested in a photo. She has to know, she has to — 

She drops the phone onto the cement floor like it’s burned her, her fingertips tingling. It clacks against the ground but lands upright. Staring back up at her from the floor is a photo of Julie. 

Codename: Villanelle. 


	3. I may be dead, honey, but I was left with my eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was longer than I meant to go between updates, but between being sick and having to do quite a bit of writing for my actual job, this chapter was a little slow. I will try to update at least once a week, though.

Villanelle is on fire. 

It has nothing to do with playing undercover here, in this MI6 building, this alleged headquarters of secrets. As far as Villanelle can tell nothing exciting has ever happened here, just papers and people shuffling from one end of the room to the next and out the door. In passing, Villanelle wonders if there’s a carbon monoxide leak somewhere. 

She is impressed. _ Impressed. _That Eve Polastri could find a way to get in trouble here, in this glorified playpen for spies, with its rounded edges and corners so none of them fall and get a boo-boo. 

What kind of woman is Eve Polastri? Villanelle doesn’t often think of her targets, her victims. But now, with Eve — thinking of her sends a hot thrill though Villanelle. 

It feels almost like it used to, Villanelle thinks. Almost. But better, somehow. Like all of her dead nerve endings have suddenly come alive in one glorious rush. 

For the first time in a very long time Villanelle feels like herself again. As if she’s stepped back into her skin, gleaming like a snake’s scales shimmer in the sunlight. Gone is the stiff and scratchy potato sack she’d been inhabiting for months, dull and lifeless. Eve Polastri is the rock against which she will break herself open again and unfurl. 

She practically skips back to her hiding place, her lair inside Frank’s old office, heels clicking against the floor as she winds her way through the maze of desks, feeling like a shining light in the fog. No one looks up at her as she passes. 

Good, Villanelle thinks. They are not worthy to stare at her. Behold her. 

Only Eve, who looked at her across a sink, not the way a trapped mouse watches a cat, with fear, but who stood across from Villanelle and stared at her with regard, held her against the light the way one would examine a diamond, checking her edges, the shape of her, the way she’d been cut. 

Villanelle was surprised by the intensity of it. Next time, she will be ready. 

The door to Frank’s office clicks closed and Villanelle leans back against it. She’s too warm. Beads of sweat prickle against the nape of her neck. The white blouse and conservative pencil skirt she’d worn are suddenly stifling, like being wrapped in a wooly blanket, and Villanelle longs for the smooth slide of silk. 

Frank’s face stares at her from across the room, looking out from a photograph perched on a, now, mostly empty desk. He’s posing with two sour looking children who appear to be trying to physically escape the confines of the picture frame, even their likenesses unwilling to be trapped with their father for eternity. Villanelle smiles at the memory of killing Frank, at how her knife slid into his stomach like it was putty, no resistance. Like he was made for this, to be killed by her. How she pressed in just enough to nick his aorta, to draw it out, stare in wonder as his blood leaked and pooled onto the floor, his heart furiously pumping away, hastening into its own demise. He bled like a stuck pig, and with the garrote wire around his throat he sounded like one too, thrashing and squealing. Something in it whispered to her, stroked the memory of the dragon she’d been chasing but, like the dozens of jobs before, it ultimately fell flat. 

_ Until now. _Villanelle bites her lip. 

She would kill one thousand pudding men like Frank for even the chance of being given Eve Polastri. 

She looks at the clock. It’s 2 p.m. There’s at least four hours between now and when Eve leaves this circle of hell and begins her commute home to her respectably nice apartment in one of London’s most perfectly average neighborhoods. Villanelle has memorized the route already, taken it twice — once each in the morning and evening. Had refrained, but only barely, from shimmying up a drainpipe to peek in a window. Had noted that her front door was protected only by one of those ridiculous “smart lock” contraptions — absurdly expensive and absurdly easy to break once you knew how. 

With nothing at hand, Villanelle decides to do what she does best, when she isn’t killing — 

Being a general pain in the arse. 

She shreds at least seven binders-worth of boring paperwork labelled “highly classified” and “top secret” along with two credit cards and one very ugly plant. She photocopies her tits twice, only because the settings were too dark the first time. She admires her work, then makes four more copies, imagines slipping them under Eve’s apartment door, leaving them in her desk. She’d seen, of course, how Eve’s eyes lingered on her chest as they regarded each other in the bathroom. She’d be doing her a favor, really, letting Eve see her tits before she dies. She deserves it. 

Six o’clock mercifully arrives before she can start setting small fires and Villanelle wraps herself in the cloak of Julie Michaels as she exits her office and heads toward the elevator at a perfectly respectable speed. She has five minutes to get down to the tube station ahead of Eve who, no doubt looking for someone following her like a shadow, will arrive just in time to slip through the already closing train car doors and cut off anyone trailing her. It’s a sound tactic, Villanelle thinks, for your run-of-the-mill thug. 

Villanelle is no thug, though. She is an _ artiste. _

The train pulls into the station and Villanelle swallows her disgust at the swell and push of bodies against her as men in cheap suits jockey for position in front of the opening doors. She catches a glimpse of shining black hair — full and voluminous and down, just like Villanelle asked — passing through the doors two cars down and Villanelle’s breath quickens. She shoves a stick-looking man to the side and steps into the train car, carving out a space for herself in the crowd and hooking her arm around a pole to balance. 

Villanelle is electric. Lit up like the third rail propelling the train car forward, current coursing through every muscle, every nerve, every pore. If she angles herself just right she can just make out Eve’s jacket and her green scarf through the window looking into the other cars. 

She will suffocate Eve Polastri, she decides. Choke her. Wrap her hands, her body, around Eve and squeeze the life out of her. It will be strenuous. Manual strangulation requires an enormous amount of physical strength and precision. It is the most difficult method of death Villanelle deals. And the most dangerous, leaving her vulnerable, like an anaconda with its jaws halfway around a deer, unable to fight back in its gluttony. It is reserved for special cases only. 

But oh, Eve Polastri is special and the risk, the tremendous effort, will be worth it to feel Eve’s body against hers, the two of them fitting together in the eternal struggle of life and death condensed down into that one moment. Condensed down to only the two of them. 

And after? Villanelle allows her mind to drift to the possibility of after. She has 45 minutes before Eve’s stop, 45 minutes to dream of Paris, of a wonderfully chic and carefully curated apartment, of trunks of designer clothes she could slip into like different lives. Dream of things going back to how they were, like Eve Polastri is the key. Kill her to get MI6 off her back, prove to Konstantin that she can play by the rules again, that she is worth all those pretty things sitting long untouched in that faraway apartment. She deserves them. 

It was his fault, anyways, for sending her to Berlin with a partner. A partner! Nadia wasn’t even a shadow of the assassin Villanelle is. She could shoot a gun, sure, but there was no finesse. She couldn’t keep the story straight, couldn’t keep her accent straight, couldn’t understand why they couldn’t just shoot the Chinese ambassador target, bang, in the head, and be done with it. And when she inevitably slipped up, when she got them caught, Villanelle killed them both and staged the scene to look like a murder-suicide. _ It was good, _Villanelle maintained. It was good work. 

Her bosses, the Twelve, did not think so. 

Villanelle is brought back to reality by the jerking slowdown of the train. She checks the electronic sign overhead. This is her stop. 

The doors hiss open and she exits the crowded in-between world of the subway and enters what she hopes will be a new chapter in her life. All that’s left is to kill Eve Polastri. 

Villanelle turns, facing away from where she knows Eve will be exiting her car. Eve will turn to the right, head up the stairs and emerge onto a quieter street, where she’ll start the 10 minute walk to her apartment building. Villanelle goes the opposite direction. She knows where Eve is going, doesn’t need to follow her so closely. It would be rude, anyways, to pounce on her as soon as she gets in the door, to not even give her a chance to settle in, put down her purse, shed her jacket. 

Exiting the tube station, Villanelle slips into the shadows like a second skin and follows a slightly indirect path to Eve’s apartment building, the winding streets and dark alleys offering her an infinite number of escape routes once the job is done. Her legs shake slightly in anticipation, her fingers flexing in her coat pocket, gripping imaginary hair, thick curls. Her heels click against the pavement like a metronome, keeping her tethered. The predator in her is testing the limits, pulling like a dog against a leash, but she cannot let go. Not yet. 

She rounds a corner and catches sight of Eve’s apartment building from the back. There’s a light on in Eve’s bedroom. She’s home.

Villanelle begins her final approach. 

She waits for an elderly woman to struggle, arms full of groceries, through the building’s front door, then catches it just before it can close and lock. She’d had a key made, of course, but this feels more natural. Stepping into the lobby, rather than climb four flights of stairs, she opts instead to wait for an elevator, to save her strength. She’ll need it. 

The elevator opens and Villanelle strides inside, hitting the button to close the door before anyone can follow her in. She chooses Eve’s floor and leans back against the wall as the carriage jerks upward. Villanelle watches the warped reflection of herself staring back at her in the elevator’s steel doors. She swears it winks before the doors part, revealing the hallway to Eve’s apartment. 

Time somehow slows and moves too fast as Villanelle is caught between wanting to get this all over with and savor it at the same time. She licks her lips as she slinks down the hallway, careful not to catch her heels on the carpet. Coming up to Eve’s door, she pulls out her phone, swiping open an app designed to look like some Angry Birds game knockoff. It latches onto some internal signal in Eve’s smart lock — Konstantin had explained it all to her before but, god, it was so boring, the only thing that matters is that it works, the lock clicks and Villanelle lets the door swing slowly open. 

There’s music. The lights are dimmed and the opening notes of Marvin Gaye’s “I Heard it Through the Grapevine” fill the apartment through some unseen speaker. Villanelle takes a cautious step in, then another, pushing the door closed behind her. 

_ Ooh I bet you’re wonderin’ how I knew, ‘bout your plans to make me blue _

Something is wrong. Villanelle feels off balance, her hackles raised. The wall decorations are throwing shadows across the apartment and the music has taken a sinister edge. It’s deeper, darker than she remembers. Foreboding. She takes a breath, tries to listen around the noise, around the echoes. 

She hears nothing. 

_ It took me by surprise, I must say, when I found out yesterday _

She crosses the tiled kitchen, rounds the island and grabs a knife from the block on the granite counter. A chef’s knife. She takes comfort in the weight of it. 

_ Don'tcha know that I heard it through the grapevine _

Turning, Villanelle heads into the dining room. There are a finite number of rooms in this apartment, a finite number of spaces for Eve Polastri to be hiding, and they are dwindling. She checks them off in her mind like a game of Battleship. Foyer? Miss. Kitchen? Miss. Living room off the kitchen? Miss. Dining room… 

Villanelle crouches, first, struck by this absurd vision of Eve hiding under the table like a child hiding from having to eat their vegetables. Her hand steady against the top of the dining table, Villanelle drops to one knee and peers into the darkness. It’s ridiculous, but Villanelle would rather be safe than have her hamstring slashed. Satisfied Eve isn’t lurking under the table, Villanelle straightens up and for a brief moment she feels herself growing bored with this game. 

Until she sees it. The unmistakable shape of an apple, sitting not an inch from her splayed hand. A single bite taken out of its otherwise perfect skin. 

_ Oh. _ Villanelle’s mouth waters. She’s caught between wanting to roll her eyes and wanting to swoon because Eve, Eve Polastri, is clever, and Villanelle should have _ known. _

She knows now. 

_ And I’m just about to lose my mind, honey, honey, yeah _

Villanelle lifts the apple to her lips and takes a bite, her lips, her teeth fitting perfectly over the mark left by Eve’s mouth. Juice runs down her chin and she wipes it absently with the back of her other hand, relaxing slightly. Chewing, she continues through the dining room into the back hallway. The door to Eve’s bedroom is cracked and Villanelle feels it then — a breeze, winding through the apartment, the cool air caressing her cheek. Her eyes widen. 

Forgoing her calm facade, Villanelle picks up her pace, rushing into the room. It’s dark and empty, as Villanelle expects, the tall awning window at the back of the room slightly ajar. Another breeze blows through, mocking her. 

Villanelle’s mouth goes dry. She swallows but there’s no relief. She should turn around. Should leave the apartment, leave this job, leave her life, leave Eve Polastri. Maybe they will let her be Julie Michaels forever. It wasn’t so bad. They let her shred things. 

She walks forward instead, the weight of an apple in one hand, a knife in the other. She nudges the window open and looks down. 

A green scarf is blowing in the wind, caught against a metal edge along the drainpipe running down the building, the same one Villanelle contemplated scaling herself to catch a glimpse of the woman who would come to throw her so utterly off balance, who would come to ruin her. 

Because Villanelle is ruined. She drops the knife and tugs at the scarf, wrapping it around her hand, winds it around her knuckles. She should be furious. Should tear through Eve’s things, destroy them. Burn down this apartment. Should rush out into the night to track Eve Polastri down like some hellhound and rip her apart with her fucking teeth. 

Villanelle brings her hand up, presses her face into the scarf and _ inhales. _Eve’s scent clings to the fabric like perfume and it pushes into the cracks in Villanelle’s thoughts, lives there, makes a home. It coats her throat like expensive champagne and god, Villanelle is so turned on right now, the razor thin edge between death and sex evaporating completely. 

She takes another bite of the apple and turns toward Eve’s bed, a smile playing at her lips. 

God, Villanelle thinks. This is going to be fun. 

_ Ooh I heard it through the grapevine _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize this characterization of Eve may not be 100% true to where Eve is in the show, at least not at the start, but I really like the idea of playing with an Eve who is a little bit more capable, who is a little more equal to Villanelle. Also we are skipping Niko in this AU because, frankly, that whole plot bores me. Give me more tension between Eve and Villanelle instead.


	4. I wish I could buy back the woman you stole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What in the goddamn? This is what happens when I'm left alone by myself for the weekend and Daylight Saving gives me an extra hour. Enjoy

Eve has never been so grateful to have both feet on the ground. 

_ Jesus _ she thinks.  _ And fuck.  _

Her hands feel like they’ve been shredded, run through razor wire and she’s going to need at least 50 tetanus shots, wonders if that will raise some sort of alarm if she shows up at an urgent care. 

She maybe should have practiced that whole shimmying down a drainpipe thing, you know, before there was an assassin hot on her heels. Should have gone to that crossfit gym Elena’s been trying to get her to join. Maybe should have done a fucking  _ pull-up _ . 

Eve may be a spy. Technically. A secret agent even, sometimes. But she’s no Tom Cruise. 

Villanelle, whoever the fuck  _ she _ is, could probably do that with ease, slide down the drainpipe like a goddamn firefighter. She could probably climb up that drainpipe too, just make gravity her bitch and scale the building to tap, tap, tap on Eve’s window like some demented version of Romeo and Juliet. 

Some part of Eve’s brain that she’s definitely not in control of flashes back to the bathroom, to Villanelle’s stare. The _ heat _ of it. 

Eve shuts that back up nice and tight. Definitely doesn’t have time to unpack whatever the fuck that was. She has a train to catch. It’s a 10 minute walk and the next train is in — Eve checks her watch — 8 minutes. 

_ Mary and Joseph and all the fucking apostles.  _

Having reached their exercise quota for the year, Eve’s legs start to wobble under her. Adrenaline can do amazing things but the comedown is a  _ bitch  _ and she needs to get out of there before Villanelle looks out the window and sees her hobbling away. Comes to find her, to sink her teeth in like a lioness hunting a newborn gazelle. 

_ Luke and Paul and fucking John. Mark and … James? Was he an apostle? Doesn’t matter. Fuck him too.  _

“Alright, listen up,” Eve says to her legs and it’s definitely supposed to be an internal monologue but we don’t always get what we want. “We just outsmarted an international  _ assassin _ . Climbed out the window like it was Mission: Impossible. Left her in the  _ dust _ . The least we can do now is manage a damn light jog to the tube station.” 

Drill sergeant she is not. 

Regardless, she gets there in a record setting 6 ½ minutes. Gets to the stairs at least. From there she leans heavily against the rail and kind of lets herself slide down the stairs, a controlled fall, if she’s being generous, because apparently escalators haven’t made it to fucking England yet. 

She swipes her Oyster card, again, and grimaces. Being a spy is  _ expensive.  _ No one ever tells you that. There’s no corporate charge card. Not even a stipend. She walks through the turnstile and onto the waiting train in one blessedly fluid movement. She’s not confident her legs could handle the intricacies of starting and stopping right now. 

Rush hour over, the train is wonderfully devoid of other people and Eve flops down into a seat, a mess of bones and Jell-o. No one runs onto the train, guns blazing. No beautiful blonde assassins with piercing stares. No one is taken hostage. She isn’t shot or stabbed or strangled. The doors just slide closed, sealing away the rest of the world, stealing Eve away from her would-be killer. 

The train jerks forward. It’s all so blissfully  _ normal.  _

Eve leans her head back against the glass and laughs. She  _ laughs.  _

It starts small but soon it’s rolling through her whole body, boiling over and she’s practically kicking her feet like a child. Sure, it’s probably some warped side effect from her near-death experience but who the fuck cares, it’s fucking funny. 

Goddamn hilarious that Eve-fucking-Polastri just outsmarted a some super assassin at least 20 years younger than her and built like she murders people for breakfast lunch and dinner. 

_ Ha!  _ She thinks.  _ I’ve still got it.  _

Eve sighs against the window, stifling the last few giggles welling up because there’s only so much crazy the train car’s only other occupant can take before he calls someone, and he’s already eyeing her suspiciously over his newspaper. Point taken, sir. 

_ God,  _ Eve thinks, still so utterly pleased with herself, practically preening in her own genius.  _ I wish I could have seen her fucking face —  _

Wait. Eve steadies herself. She totally could. See her face, that is. Eve’s hand shoots to her pocket to dig out her phone, remembering the overly complicated security system Kenny insisted she have installed.  _ So you don’t get caught off guard, _ he’d said at the time, like he knew how this was all going to play out even then, months ago. 

She swipes to the app and lets it load. Admittedly she’d never used it before, couldn’t get over feeling like some sicko voyeur, despite the fact that it was her own apartment she’d be watching. Like her knickknacks deserved some privacy or something. 

Eve cycles through the different cameras. She’s nervous. Her heart is pounding, fingers slick, leaving gross little sweat marks on her phone because the idea of seeing Villanelle again, even filtered through about three different screens, is enough to get Eve going, put her right back in their cat-and-mouse game. Like Villanelle will somehow know she’s being watched, will somehow be able to reach right through the camera and slip her fingers around Eve’s throat.

She coughs a little, her hand coming up to her neck like she can feel the ghost of Villanelle’s touch. Except Villanelle’s never touched her. Not yet. And if Eve’s lucky, she never will. 

Lucky. Right. 

She finds Villanelle still in her apartment, in her bedroom. On her bed. Which is fucking  _ odd  _ but okay. Just make yourself at home, then, Eve thinks. Is she taking a  _ nap _ ? 

Eve squints and brings her phone closer to her face to try and get a better look, make out the shape in the dark. She’s practically falling into her phone as she hits the button to zoom in. 

It all clicks together, then. Snaps right into focus when she sees Villanelle’s hand between her legs, sees the way her graceful back  _ arches  _ off the bed. 

Oh. 

_ Oh.  _

Eve jerks back and manages, just barely, to not hurl her phone across the aisle, likely shattering it into one million pieces, a stream of Villanelle getting off, just fucking herself right on Eve’s bed, the last thing it will ever play. Eve looks away, then back at her phone. Is that her fucking  _ scarf?  _

She closes out of the app in a flurry. And if she happens to hit the button to save the recording for later it’s a fucking slip of her goddamn finger. Sue her. 

The man at the other end of the car takes this as his cue to leave. He doesn’t even wait for the train to slow down, just ignores every single safety sign and opens the emergency door between cabs and slips away. God, Eve wishes that were her. Wishes she could just divorce herself from her brain and walk away. Forty-five minutes is entirely far too long to be left alone with herself and she has had a  _ day.  _

The train pulls into the next station and skids to a halt. A new poor, unfortunate soul wanders into Eve’s little car of horrors. He sits down across from her, giving her a polite nod before digging into his own newspaper. 

She looks away but skims the headlines out of the corner of her eye. It’s mostly boring but — there! 

The headline “Whistleblower accuses gov’t in terror-attack cover up” stretches across near translucent newsprint. Eve’s lips curl into a smile. Front page. Below the fold but still, not bad. Knowing the British press, it’s a more tabloid-y version of the New York Times story, not as thorough but still. It’s something. 

And there’s so much more where that came from, Eve thinks. 

Suddenly, she’s struck by an overwhelming urge to reach across the aisle and shake this man. Just wrap her hands around his shoulders and fucking wake him up from the zombified slumber he and everyone else seem to be in, lumbering through life, letting their government do whatever the fuck it wants. Slap him.  _ Don’t you fucking know?  _ She would yell at this man, pointing to the story.  _ Don’t you understand? Because this,  _ _ this _ _ is just the beginning. Just a snowflake on the tippity top of the goddamn iceberg. You have no i-fucking-dea. You don’t even  _ _ know. _ _ _

Instead, Eve stands. She gives the man, his paper and his ignorance a tight smile before exiting the train onto a new, decidedly grimier, street. She’s greeted by a rat wholly drinking from a Coke bottle. With both hands. 

Mercifully this seems to flip some sort of switch in her brain, short some circuit, and she trudges to her apartment, her other, off-the-books apartment, in relative peace. Pushes into the grungy motel-turned-rats nest for people. Unlocks three industrial-grade deadbolts with three different keys to get into her front door. Flops onto the couch she picked up for free as a curb-alert on Craigslist. 

God she’s tired. Her stomach rumbles, reminding her it’s now past 9 p.m. and she still hasn’t eaten. She looks around and spots a half-open package of Oreos within reach. Bless past-Eve for leaving these here and not putting them away. Bless her. 

The rush of artificial sugar on her tongue momentarily revives Eve and she sits up. Her phone is burning a hole in her pocket to match the image burning its way into Eve’s brain, but she ignores it, instead grabs a slim silver Macbook off the coffee table with an EncryptStick-loaded USB plugged into it. 

She licks her lips and lets it all whirl to life. 

She navigates to the secure MI6 online database through an anonymous browser, pausing when it asks for her credentials. 

She couldn’t use her own. That would be stupid. A dead-fucking-giveaway. They’d be watching her. 

Kenny, though, had given her his username and password. Which came with his top-secret permissions. Permissions to dig through every file all of MI6, and probably MI5 too, had on active assassins operating in Europe.

Of course, it came with the caveat that she only use it in an emergency. 

Eve thinks back to a certain blonde assassin breaking into her apartment to kill her. If that doesn’t count as an fucking emergency…

She types in Kenny’s credentials and hits ‘enter.’ The browser whisks her away to another page. It’s rather bland looking, but Eve knows she has the world at her fingertips. She clicks on the search bar. 

She is going to learn every single goddamn thing about Villanelle. Whoever the fuck she is.


	5. Try to hide it out, but my tracks are better

If this is what normal life is like, Villanelle may have written it off just a little too soon.

She is back in MI6, draped in the guise of Julie Michaels, the mild-mannered and somewhat reclusive accounting secretary who spends most of her day in the late Frank’s office doing important maths or whatever they do in accounting. Maths is stupid, in Villanelle’s rather blunt assessment, relevant in her life only as her muscles calculate the exact amount of force needed to crush a windpipe. 

Eve is here too. Villanelle cannot work out how exactly this makes her feel, her mind swinging back and forth through her emotions like the odometer on a car, cutting through shades of mildly impressed to somewhat concerned at her target’s blatant disregard for her life. Doesn’t she know people are trying to kill her? Some of them in this very office? 

Villanelle glances sidelong through the rectangular office window looking out onto the floor of MI6 and huffs a strand of blonde hair out of her face. She’s decided on an emotion: offended. 

She is offended that Eve would arrive to work, here, in this MI6, so completely unaffected by Villanelle, as if a beautiful, incredible, talented, ruthless and  _ stunning _ international assassin were not actively trying to kill her. As if they were not caught in the most exquisite duel of life and death together. As if Villanelle had not come on Eve’s bed so hard it brought tears to her eyes to visions of Eve sprawled out under her, delicately carved, gasping, blood spilling out of her like warm mulled wine. 

It is so absolutely unfair for Eve to be in this very building, in such close proximity to the wonder that is Villanelle, and be so maddeningly unaffected, while Villanelle is left in this musty old office feeling like she might  _ combust  _ from only the memories, the embers, of it. Instead, she acts as if Villanelle is not important. As if she is nothing. 

Villanelle has never been nothing. Not growing up in a dirt poor Russian village with a dead mother and drunk for a father Not in that fucking prison. Not ever. 

She has always been everything. 

Is it really so much to ask, she wonders, for just a little bit of acknowledgement? A tiny scrap of a reaction? Villanelle is a reactive creature, thriving on the responses she draws out of others, burning them like fuel. Couldn’t she have screamed a little? Maybe tried to run, only for them both to end up in the photocopier closet, their bodies entwined?

It was not easy, securing the clearances necessary to work here or being subtle enough to evade notice as she followed Eve home enough times to memorize her route. And, in Villanelle’s opinion, she handled leaving Eve’s apartment empty handed rather well. Anyone else,  _ anyone,  _ would have regretted it, toying with Villanelle that way, like taunting a lion with a mouse on a stick. She didn’t even kill anyone on the way back to her hotel. She  _ behaved.  _

Villanelle mentally catalogs each grievance, each  _ hurt,  _ and rolls it into the debt on Eve’s head. She will pay it back as she dies. 

But that is enough, this stewing on Eve. It is getting a little pathetic, Villanelle decides, resolving to not think of Eve any more for the rest of her workday. 

She definitely does not think of her when she uses Eve’s work email to sign up for no less than 15 sex toy newsletters and three dating websites. Doesn’t think about her at all as she orders a set of luxurious 1,200 thread count sheets to be delivered to Eve’s apartment. Doesn’t think about how they’ll feel under her knees as her fingers thread over Eve’s throat. Doesn’t think about how pretty they’ll look stained with Eve’s blood, like abstract art. 

A knock at the door interrupts Villanelle not thinking about Eve.

She clears her throat and rolls her jaw, loosening her “r’s,” smoothing her hard consonants, finding Julie’s posh British lilt on her palate before standing to answer the door. Maybe it will be Eve, called by the power of Villanelle not thinking about her. 

It is not Eve. Her disappointment, though, is quickly stunted by the fact that she doesn’t actually know who this person is. She’d been given a list of photos and names of Eve’s close associates to memorize, but Villanelle treated the instruction as seriously as any instruction coming from anyone who isn’t her. 

Which is to say, not seriously at all. 

“Julie?” the other woman asks. She’s young, closer to Vilanelle’s age, and bubbly and bright and Villanelle can guess she doesn’t fit in well here, at MI6, considering how alive she looks and how asleep her colleagues appear to be. 

“That’s what they tell me,” Villanelle offers in a friendly reply, because if she cannot play with Eve she will at least get her kicks playing with this woman. 

“Elena,” the other says, holding out her hand for Villanelle to shake, and Villanelle realizes it’s been a long time since she’s interacted with someone who wasn’t afraid for their life. It’s nice. 

“Sorry I didn’t get over here sooner, they kind of shut you up in Frank’s office and, well, if I’m being honest, it’s a little weird,” Elena trails off. 

“It’s a little dark, yeah,” Villanelle says. “There’s still pictures of him on the desk. It’s kind of creepy. You knew him?” 

“Frank? Yeah, he was our … boss,” Elena’s eyes trail around the room and Villanelle can’t quite read her expression. 

“You were close?” 

“Oh god no!” Elena laughs. “No, Frank was awful. Boring. He came out to the pub with us once and just cried into his whiskey while the rest of us did karaoke. Was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. Whoever did him in was probably doing him a favor.” 

Villanelle certainly can’t argue with that. 

“But hey, if you’re looking to get out of the dungeon of doom, you should come hang out with us. We’re much better company, plus we steal all the best snacks out of the vending machine and sell them back to people at twice the price.” 

“We?” Villanelle asks. 

“Yeah, our little team. Right now it’s just me and Eve, since Bill’s home with his arsehole baby —” 

“Eve Polastri?” It’s out before Villanelle can even help herself and for a moment she’s worried about blowing her cover. Damn Eve Polastri for inspiring this in her. 

“Yeah, she’s like, my best friend. Well, my best work friend anyways.” If Elena found the question suspicious. she’s moved on. She might like Elena, who is eyeing her now with a look that can only be described as “gleefully mischievous.” 

“Have you met Eve?” 

“Met is a strong word,” Villanelle answers, as if she hasn’t spent at least 75% of waking hours thinking about their shared moment in the MI6 bathroom. “More like, crossed paths in the loo once or twice.” 

“And what did you think of her?” 

Elena is learning forward now, grinning full and feline like the Cheshire Cat and Villanelle has a passing fear that she’s about to be sucked in and go tumbling down some kind of rabbit hole. Or further down the rabbit hole that is Eve Polastri. She answers, breathless and honest. 

“I think she is beautiful.” 

Elena clasps her hands together, her face scrunching real tight as she lets out a noise Villanelle would best describe as a squeal, nearly jumping up and down. Villanelle understands — she too often feels this way when thinking about Eve Polastri, just usually while she’s imagining killing her. 

“This is so freaking perfect! I was  _ just  _ telling Eve she needs to get out more and I was going to set her up with someone.” Elena pauses. “Well, with you, actually. It was more of a joke — not that you’re a joke or anything — but here you are, interested! Funny how things work out like that.” 

Elena has no idea how funny Villanelle’s life has gotten lately. 

Then, Villanelle is struck with an idea, brilliant in both its simplicity and prickishness. The best kind of plan. She walks back to Frank’s desk and, with her back turned to Elena and obscuring her actions, she slips one of the 13 photocopies of her tits out of a manila folder. She admires them for a moment before rummaging in her bag for a pen, as well as one of the tiny GPS transponders Konstantin gave her for the mission, pressing the tiny switch on the side to activate it. She pantomimes writing on the picture of her tits, then folds up the paper into a tight little square — the way American highschoolers do in movies she’s seen to pass notes — the transponder tucked discreetly inside.

It’s her turn to grin as she hands the note back to Elena. 

“This is probably kind of strange, but could you give this to Eve?” she asks. “It’s my number. So we could maybe meet up for drinks? But, could you find a way to maybe, I don’t know, slip it in her purse? You’re spies in here right? I just don’t want her opening it at work, you know?” 

Elena looks like she’s about to launch into the stratosphere. Villanelle is sure that if she asked, Elena would officiate their wedding in a heartbeat, right there in this awful MI6 spy office. What a cruel twist of fate, Villanelle thinks, to have inadvertently set up the murder of your best friend. 

If Villanelle were a different person, she would probably feel bad about this, might even have second thoughts about the irreparable trauma she’s about to inflict upon Elena. 

If Villanelle were a different person, though, she wouldn’t be here, preening in her own brilliance, watching from her office as Elena waits until Eve is distracted before slipping the note inconspicuously into her purse and giving Villanelle a thumbs up. 

Villanelle licks her lips. Quitting time can’t come soon enough. 

****************************

Only going home to one apartment really cuts down on her commute. 

It gives Eve more time to plan her next move, sure. But as a nasty side-effect, it also gives her more time to think. And inside Eve’s brain is not a great place to be right now. 

Case in point — today at work, she’s filing reports at MI6 and in walks a known international assassin, who is inexplicably working as their new accounts secretary. Who, despite being a secretary, gets her own office. Frank’s old office. Whom she killed. 

But despite all this, and despite the fact that she is actually actively trying to kill Eve, the day was … normal? Wholly unremarkable? Completely indistinguishable from any of the other days Eve has slodged through? 

It’s not that Eve wanted to throw down into a life-or-death fight right there next to the water cooler — if only because she’d have nothing to defend herself with, as MI6 is remarkably devoid of sharp objects. Don’t want the spies running with scissors and hurting themselves. 

But maybe she just expected a little more … drama? Like maybe they make dramatic eye contact with each other from across the office? Or somehow end up locked in the photocopier closet together? 

Or maybe Villanelle really is Julie Michaels and Eve has actually gone insane, is experiencing a boredom-induced break with reality. Like when you’re in one of those sensory-deprivation tanks and you start seeing and hearing things that aren’t there as your brain tries to fill the void. And her brain decided to fill the void with a beautiful, talented, thrilling, terrifying blonde assassin with wide hazel eyes that have burned their way through to Eve’s very core. 

In that case, Eve thinks, maybe she’s rather lucky. 

An announcement over the train’s PA system tells her they’re experiencing technical issues with the tracks up ahead and they’ll be delayed at least 30 minutes. That’s fine, Eve thinks, she has nowhere better to be. 

She wants gum, though. Being in a near constant state of life-and-death really dries out your mouth. No one ever tells you that. Add that to the list. Eve’s bag is resting on the seat next to her and she starts rummaging through it, certain she must have a piece of gum somewhere within its depths. In her search, she pulls out a manila folder and sets it on her lap. If she’s going to be here awhile, might as well get some reading done. 

And then she spots it. Not gum, no she couldn’t be that lucky, but a folded up piece of paper tucked into the recesses of her bag. Could she be sure it wasn’t there before? No. But something about it has the hairs on her arms standing up, the same prickling in her gut, the same alarm bells sounding in her mind as whenever Villanelle is around, a feeling she somehow wears like a perfume and apparently extends to objects she’s touched. 

Eve reaches for the square of folded up paper, fingertips prodding it lightly, poking it. It doesn’t explode, which is good. Eve doesn’t know if she can say the same about herself, though. She feels like she’s about to vibrate out of her skin, like her body is searching for Villanelle’s frequency so they can occupy the same wavelength, the same space in the atmosphere around them. 

Sufficiently convinced the note doesn’t, in fact, contain an explosive, Eve pulls it out into the harsh fluorescents of the train car. There’s nothing to hide here, in these lights. Eve knows because she’s tried. 

Eve examines the note for a long moment, turning it in her hands. It looks … almost like the kind of note students pass each other in class? Those same rounded corners, and the way the edges are all tucked into each other so as not to dislodge and reveal their secrets as they’re tossed about. She untucks one of the edges and the note unfurls, like an accordion. 

Eve’s mind wanders for a moment, confounded by the possibilities at hand, at what will be revealed as she undoes the final fold. Will it just be blank? No, Eve can already see something is on the other side thanks to the light. And besides, Villanelle lives on excitement, on theatrics. Is it some sort of manifesto, like the Zodiac Killer, to taunt her with? While Villanelle is likely outrageously self-absorbed, she doesn’t seem like the introspective type, Eve decides. A crime scene photo, then? One of her previous jobs, as a warning? That’s a possibility, Eve thinks. Villanelle seems like the type to revisit a scene, either in person or through the media, to admire her handiwork. 

With these options in mind, she unfolds the note to take in what’s concealed within. 

It’s — a picture of her chest? 

Eve looks away quickly, her cheeks burning. The image is black-and-white and a little fuzzy, but Eve is pretty sure she saw … 

She glances back at the paper, willing her eyes to linger just a little longer as she forces her brain to be clinical about its analysis and not read too much into it. It’s just tits, brain, you’ve seen them before. 

Because it’s definitely her tits. Eve can see that clearly now. Whatever immediate Freudian-response her mind created from that first look was absolutely correct. The image is a little abstract and Eve would bet anything it was created with the photocopier in Frank’s office, but there’s no mistaking them. 

Eve bites her lip, cause otherwise she’s going to start screaming. That fucking  _ asshole.  _

Almost lost in the drama of the moment is the unassuming fingernail-sized object that tumbled out of the note and into Eve’s lap. And it’s really to her credit, Eve thinks, that she notices it at all, with Villanelle’s nipples somehow following her as she holds the photo at different angles. But there it is. 

Delicately, Eve picks it up, brings it up to her face for a closer examination. It looks almost like a hearing aid, and Eve imagines it could easily be tucked into someone’s ear without being noticed. 

It’s a GPS transponder. 

Eve laughs. The slow, kind of barking laugh of someone who just had a massive joke played on them and is laughing because it’s the only reaction they can think of. Because if they start laughing it will all suddenly become funny. 

But it is funny. Funny that Eve spent the day so completely disappointed, so thoroughly bored and maybe at least a little convinced she was losing her mind, when the whole time it was here. The excitement. The rush. 

She keeps laughing, louder now and unrestrained. The only other person in the train cab is a dishevelled old man who’d so far spent the ride mumbling to himself. He starts laughing too. She’s among her people now. 

Villanelle would be coming tonight. She needs to prepare. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, this chapter was hard. 
> 
> This last week was long and a bunch of different creative projects all came together at once and it really sucked up a lot of those good creative juices, plus the time change when I get home and it's pitch black and it's hard to motivate myself to do anything, nevermind keep writing and creating. 
> 
> But I really wanted to get a chapter up because I love this story and I love being able to contribute to this fandom. And I really want to get to the next chapter, where we're (finally) going to get some face-to-face interactions between our two favorite ladies. 
> 
> If there's one thing I've learned writing at least 1,000 words a day for the last 5 years for my job, as well as creating thousands of stories and story ideas for myself and other people, it's to just write. Seriously, just write and then keep writing. You'll find the thing you're trying to say, or you'll find the end and you can move on.The way our brains work, sometimes we need to see bad ideas before we can come up with a good one. And sometimes we need to take one for the team and be the person that puts out that bad idea, even for ourselves. 
> 
> I wrote and re-wrote this chapter at least three times. Am I happy with it? Not really. Is it my favorite thing I've ever written? No. Is it good enough? Does it move the story forward? It does, and I've seen so many people quit because they let perfect become the enemy of good enough. 
> 
> That's all I've got. Stay tuned for more!


	6. These paths we'll cross again, again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's Sunday, have some sin.

Villanelle waits with the patience of an ambush predator. 

She knows this, the hunt, she knows it well. It’s baked into her being, the very fiber of her DNA. Crack her open and you’ll find she’s made of the same stuff as tigers, as sleek shining leopards with beautiful spots and even more beautiful teeth. She would be at home in the jungle, is at home here in London, just swap the trees for buildings and set her loose. 

She stares up at the fifth floor window from the park bench across the street, stares at it with absolute singularity, her universe narrowed down to one bright spot — Eve Polastri. She hears nothing else, sees nothing else, just stares and stares. She does not blink. 

Night has fallen, draped her in its embrace, welcomed her home. Still, Villanelle does not stir. She must be patient. She is pure potential, all coiled strength and roiling, kinetic energy. Her cells hum, seeking their match, seeking Eve. It is hard, this self restraint. Villanelle is a creature of indulgence, who basks in her own prowess. But she has misstepped before. Eve inspires this in her, this skittish apprehension. But it will be oh so sweet if she can wait, can trap Eve beneath her claws, drag her into the halcyon abyss of death. 

Villanelle blinks. 

This diversion, this dance with Eve has replenished her. Has cut through her like a cold winter’s wind, making her exquisitely, painfully aware of every part of herself, every joint and tendon she’d forgotten in the languid, lazy summer she’d spent half asleep, killing over and over and feeling nothing. But now, on this grimy street on the outskirts of London where rats fight over pizza and her butt is sticking slightly to this park bench, now she is wide awake. 

She will thank Eve for this, this rapturous second coming of Villanelle. Will thank her with a knife sliding below her ribs and fingers laced around her throat. There is no greater gift. 

It’s getting late. Villanelle’s stomach growls and she curses the limitations of her physical body, its imperfections. But then - a sign. The light illuminating the fifth floor window - Eve’s bedroom - switches off and the room goes dark. It is time. 

Villanelle rises from her seat, wincing as the stickiness pulls at her leggings. She has shed Julie Michaels - the heels, the pencil skirts and too tight blouses - and is dressed solely for function, a pearl-handled knife strapped to her thigh. A church bell begins to chime, its long, slow tone masking her heavy-booted footsteps as she crosses the street toward Eve’s building. For whom the bell tolls, indeed. 

As she reaches the garbage bins she’ll use to vault up and climb the winding maze of fire escapes, Villanelle feels like an overstrung bow, like a too-full glass of water, held together by molecular tension but ready to spill at the slightest provocation. The physical exertion of quickly climbing each fire escape tempers her energy slightly, keeps it manageable, but Villanelle isn’t sure what to expect when she pulls open the window to Eve’s bedroom, isn’t sure she’ll be fully in control. Perhaps she will rip Eve apart, tear into her chest, find the piece of her that has made Villanelle so crazy and take it with her. She will look like a painting in the soft light of morning, the red of her blood turned pastel and wild curls fanned across her pillow. What kind of face will she make? Will she be at peace? 

She’s arrived at the window, a pane of glass the only thing separating her from Eve Polastri. She comes by window this time, a reversal of her previous approach. It will be easier to chase Eve this way, through the apartment and out a door rather than try to follow her down the fire escapes. But if she gets this right, there will be no chase. 

She brings her hand to the glass, almost recoils at the cool touch of it, like she’d expected it to burn with the friction between the two of them. She takes out the knife and digs the blade along the edge to shimmy it open just enough to slip the tip of her finger in and swing it open wider. It isn’t locked and Villanelle wonders if, just maybe, Eve wants this as bad as she does. 

Villanelle contorts herself to fit through the rectangular window and slips soundlessly into the near total darkness of the room. Her pupils take in just enough moonlight to make out Eve’s sleeping form on the bed, make out her hair peeking out from under the covers. 

Her ears are ringing. She can’t hear anything else, can hardly hear herself breathe. She’s flushed, but her palms are cool with sweat and she wonders if her hand will slip down the blade as she stabs Eve, wonders if their blood will flow together, will coalesce on the sheets. 

This is the moment. The longer she waits, the more likely it is something will go wrong. She takes a deep breath and  _ pounces _ . 

It is  _ flawless _ . Villanelle’s complete mastery of her body, of her movements, the force, the pressure. She’s pinned Eve down before the other woman can even react, her knee on a pressure point along Eve’s spine, fingers squeezing her throat. Leaning over her like this, Villanelle is surrounded by Eve, her scent all over the pillows, the sheets. She plunges the knife into Eve’s back, just under her ribs, thrusts upwards to catch her lungs. She pulls the knife back and thrusts again, gets her hips behind it, wants to bite down on Eve’s throat, so entirely caught up in the raw sexuality of it. She chances a look down and can make out a dark stain growing around the knife. Villanelle practically growls as she thrusts harder against the knife and this time her hand does slip, the blade digs into her palm and it’s euphoric, so complex, so vexing, so alive and so very, very perfect… 

Then, the bedroom door opens. 

For a moment, Villanelle is blind, the flood of light from the hallway stinging her eyes and she’s caught like a deer in headlights, caught here, on Eve’s bed, practically dry humping a knife. Blinking rapidly, she turns away, to the safety of the darkness before swiveling her head back around because what the _ fuck _ , can’t they see she is  _ busy _ here? 

Except she isn’t actually busy at all, because standing in the doorway, silhouetted against ghastly yellow lights, is Eve Polastri. 

“Oh,” Eve says, calm and level and not at all dead, like she’s meant to be. “You’re here. I’ll put the tea on.” 

She turns and disappears back into the hallway like she’d just walked in on her roommate having sex and asked them to please keep it down. Which is, uncomfortably close to the truth, Villanelle thinks. She pulls the knife out and holds it up to the light, examines the smears of red running down the blade. She sniffs it once, twice, then pokes her tongue out for an experimental lick. It’s …

Pomegranate? 

All at once, the rush is gone, leaving Villanelle heavy and loose limbed. She’s off balance, floating like one of those giant parade balloons that’s caught the wind and gotten away from its handlers. 

“Aren’t you coming?” Villanelle’s ears prick up at the sound of Eve’s voice, zeroing in on the frequency, and she feels herself rise from the bed, clambering off fake Eve. Fruit Eve. Her body feels like soup. 

“You know I’m not, like, you’re UberEats driver right?” Villanelle calls back to her as she steps into the hallway. “I’m here to kill you.” 

“I know.” Eve’s in front of her again. “And you’re late.” 

She’s wearing a loose pink tank top and grey sweatpants and is smiling as she gestures to Villanelle, beckons her to come sit down, get comfortable. No one should be this comfortable in such close proximity to Villanelle. It makes her want to lash out, to gnash her teeth, sink her nails into Eve’s throat until there’s little half moon cuts, sink her teeth into the skin there until Eve knows in her last moments that she belongs only to Villanelle. 

Instead, she trudges down the hallway toward what she assumes is the living room. She steps close to Eve, whose back is against the wall to let her by. Their eyes lock. 

It’s dangerous, being this close to Eve Polastri. Time is slow and sticky and catches in Villanelle’s throat. She’s half a head taller than Eve but still feels like she’s drowning in her, feels like a fly caught in the heady sap of a pitcher plant just before the lid closes. She’s totally disarmed. It’s as thrilling as it is terrifying. 

There’s a mug of steaming tea waiting for her on the low coffee table in front of a rather repulsive looking couch. Eve has disappeared again, leaving her alone to take in the space, which is only slightly larger than a closet yet somehow functions as both the living room and kitchen. If Villanelle reaches her hand out, she can probably touch both the mini refrigerator and the corner of the couch. There’s no oven, only a tiny square of counter space where the electric kettle is perched. 

“Your apartment is a shithole,” Villanelle calls out, hoping to needle Eve, get back a tiny foothold against her. “I liked your other place better.”

Eve laughs, the sound floating through paper thin walls. 

“Yeah, well the landlord here takes cash and doesn’t ask questions,” Eve replies from the adjoining room. “You get what you pay for. And considering you broke into my other place with the intention of killing me, I’d say it’s worth it.” 

“I broke into this place too,” Villanelle retorts, a little put out. Eve has re-emerged, presumably from the bathroom, holding a sheet of gauze and an elastic bandage. 

“Oh please, Villanelle,” Eve says, sitting across from her in an uncomfortable-looking chair. “I let you in. The window wasn’t even locked.” 

She’s right but Villanelle wants to argue, is feeling petulant and petty. She takes a sip of tea, is struck at once by the biting sting of too much lemon smoothed out by a sweet curl of honey. Eve watches her, blank faced but knowing, knowing she got it exactly right. Villanelle wants to spit it out, spit it back at Eve, wants to lunge across the coffee table and smash the mug against her skull again and again and again and again.

She takes another sip and stares at Eve. Waits for her to do … something. Anything. To yell, to scream, to fight. To give anything Villanelle can latch onto to pull herself out of this quicksand, can use as leverage to turn the tables back in her favor. 

Eve slides the gauze and bandage across the table toward Villanelle, who suddenly remembers the cut on her hand, has probably left bloody handprints on Eve’s mug. Good, she thinks. She lashes out with her hand and sends them flying into the wall. Take that. 

Eve’s eyebrow twitches, raises just slightly. Villanelle can work with that.    
  


**************************

Eve could like this version of Villanelle. 

She could like the Villanelle sitting across from her, the gorgeous, glamorous assassin slumming it on her Craigslist couch. She’s raw and unfocused and wide open and if Eve leans across the table she could fall into her and be burned alive by the efferous flame within. 

It would be  _ fucking amazing.  _

But for right now, Villanelle is pliant. Fruit Eve worked exactly as planned, with Villanelle expending her strength on pillowcases stuffed with pomegranate and mushy bananas designed to mimic Eve’s flesh, rather than on, you know, Eve’s actual flesh. She has no doubt Villanelle would make the experience absolutely exquisite, but she’s not up for dying today. 

Villanelle sips tea that’s so sour and sweet that it would tear your tongue apart, just like Villanelle herself, and Eve’s chest aches just a little because this is a Villanelle she wants to like. She’s reminded of watching glassy-eyed tigers perform on television, jumping through hoops and dancing at the direction of Siegfried and Roy. She remembers rumors that they had to keep replacing Roy when one of the tigers remembered what it was, remembered the taste of blood. 

Eve swallows. She’d been up all night scrolling through case after case, crime scene after crime scene learning Villanelle, reading her through. She’d dozed to visions of expertly sliced femoral arteries and blood spattered hospital rooms dancing behind her eyes and it’s so twisted, so utterly dark because that — that is the Villanelle Eve  _ knows _ she could like. 

Across from her, Villanelle throws her tantrum, sends the gauze and bandage flying - admittedly not very far because she’s right, the apartment is a shithole. Eve does her best to stay calm but  _ Jesus Christ  _ how do you stay calm when there’s a trained, professional killer in your shoebox-sized apartment? 

Eve does what she does best when she’s fucking terrified — she leans right the fuck into it. 

“Is this the part where you ask who I’m working for? Why I am doing this?” Villanelle’s smile is fake, she’s practically sneering and Eve can tell she’s trying to provoke her, has her read from front to back. This will be fun. 

“Or will you beg? Offer me money if I let you live? Will there be tears?” Villanelle gives an exaggerated pout, her lower lip jutting out as she crosses her legs and leans back, waiting for her answer. Eve doesn’t give her time to get smug. 

“I know why you’re here, so there’s no point in asking,” she answers, willing her voice not to waiver, not to crack. “And even if I did ask, you wouldn’t know. You’re not the type to care. You’re in it for the thrill of the kill, the why doesn’t matter to you.” 

“I know who you’re working for - probably know a lot more than you, actually because I doubt you’ve taken a close look at the hand that feeds you. Maybe you should.” 

Villanelle is still and quiet and Eve gives herself a mental high five because that’s what you get for thinking you’re so smart, for having no idea what Eve is capable of. She pushes on.

“I’m not going to offer you money to let me live because I know you’re not getting paid to kill me,” she says. “And, frankly, I don’t have any money to give you.” 

“And I’m not going to beg for my life because,” she swallows again, slips for just a second. “Because that would disappoint you. You hate when they beg. It’s always messier when they do.” 

Like Frank, Eve thinks, remembering the pool of blood under him, coagulated like jelly, remembering how his head had nearly been lopped off by the wire wound around his throat. 

Villanelle leans forward in her seat. Her eyes are wide and watery and the hazel of them shimmers in the light, her pupils perfectly round and she is open, somehow, like she is taking in, absorbing. 

“Tell me,” she rasps. “Tell me what else you know about me.” 

Eve knows it would be a fucking honor to be killed by Villanelle. It would sure as shit beat choking to death on a pretzel in her apartment, alone, which is pretty much how she figured it would go. Or slipping on the tile as she gets out of the shower, which was another top contender. Or leaving the tea kettle on and burning the building down, somehow. 

“I know you’re incredibly talented. I know you were a top asset for the Twelve. I know you got too creative and you fell out of favor when you killed a partner on a job. Made it look like a murder-suicide. That was good work, by the way.” Villanelle hums at the compliment. 

“I know you’ve gotten bored. You do this job because you love the killing, the rush of it.” Her eyes are locked with Villanelle’s, like she’s hypnotized, like they’re hypnotizing each other. “The pay, the expensive clothes, the luxury, that’s all a bonus. But lately, it’s gotten harder and harder to feel anything. You do what you’re asked, you kill people, and you feel nothing. You buy what you want and you don’t want it. Until now.” 

Eve reaches back behind herself with her right hand, grabs what she’s looking for and brings it forward without breaking eye contact with Villanelle. Somehow the two of them are just a breath apart now, entwined in the inescapable gravitational pull they’ve been exerting on each other ever since Villanelle answered her phone in that room in the Ace Hotel. 

“I know that you want to kill me, that it thrills you in a way you’ve been missing. And I know, one day, you’ll probably succeed and finish the job and it will feel just like you’d imagined.” Eve takes a deep breath, steels herself. 

“But I also know that day is not today.” 

Villanelle blinks. Her eyebrows twitch and only then does she look down and see the gun in Eve’s hand, pointed at her chest. 


	7. Free yourself, that leash is long, long, long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the last episode of "Two Idiots, One Brain Cell," Eve Polastri was holding an assassin as gunpoint. Who has the brain cell at this point? Hard to say.
> 
> Villanelle was shorted the last few chapters so she gets her own, now, because she doesn't like sharing.

Villanelle isn’t sure if she wants to start swearing or swoon. 

“Wow.  _ Wow, _ ” Villanelle says. “That is rude, Eve.” 

“Breaking into someone’s home to kill them is rude,” Eve answers evenly. 

“Um, you let me in? You just said. The window was unlocked and everything.” 

The gun is tiny, a pocket pistol, really, the kind that are usually painted pink and designed for ladies handbags. This one, though, is worn black steel, a .22 caliber most likely, the bullet designed to ricochet around her chest cavity, ping off her ribs like a pinball, cutting through organs and blood vessels. It wouldn’t kill her outright, but she might bleed to death before she can reach a hospital, her chest ripped apart from the inside. It is not how she wants to die. 

Would Eve shoot her? Villanelle studies her in the dim light of the living room. She’d never been adept at guessing what other people were thinking, couldn’t be bothered. What other people think only rarely coincides with what they do, and what Eve will do — whether she will bend her finger far enough to depress the pistol’s trigger and send a screaming hot metal bullet into Villanelle’s chest — that is the question at hand. 

Eve’s face is a void, betraying nothing. Her eyes are dark, but earnest. Yes, they say, I’m pointing a gun at you. If this were a chess match, Eve would have just called ‘check’ and hit the timer. Villanelle hates chess, doesn’t understand why each piece has rules, why the queen cannot do it all herself and why the weak king is worth protecting. The few times Konstantin tried to teach her she ended up flipping the board, scattering the pieces everywhere and declaring herself the winner. If you are playing by the rules and losing, destroy the game. 

She’s tempted to try that tack now, to throw arms up and sweep the gun out of Eve’s hand, use the leverage to spring across the coffee table and wrap her hand around Eve’s throat, pin her down and use every last drop of strength to squeeze the life out of Eve, to watch her face turn blue, her eyes go wide and her soul retreat in. Destroy this game they are playing. 

It would be a race, a test of who could react faster. This is why Villanelle hates guns - they throw everything out of balance. Under normal circumstances, Villanelle’s perfectly predatory reflexes would win every time. Here, though, where the line between walking away and grievous injury was a twitch of a trigger finger, Villanelle did not like those odds. 

Check mate. For now. 

“Okay.  _ Okay _ ,” Villanelle says, slowly. She raises her hands, relaxes her face, tries to appear harmless. It’s an act she’s perfected in years of being an assassin, but the shtick falls flat when you’ve broken into someone’s home and brutally stabbed about £50 worth of fruit thinking it was them. 

“What would you like me to do?” 

“You’re going to do something you probably haven’t done since you were a little baby assassin,” Eve replies, standing. She motions with the gun for Villanelle to stand too. Villanelle does. “You’re going to walk out of here without finishing a job. And go back to … wherever you stay.” 

_ The Ace Hotel,  _ Villanelle almost replies.  _ Room 107.  _ Would Eve come? She would leave the door unlocked for her. Leave the window open, freeze all night for just the possibility of it. 

“I’ll be back, you know,” Villanelle says instead. 

“I’m pretty much counting on it at this point.”

Eve’s voice is steady, the gun still level with Villanelle’s chest. It’s about two inches off from her heart, but Eve can’t be expected to know that, to know the exact position of her aorta, know which shots would kill Villanelle instantly and which would condemn her to an excruciating death. It suits her, Villanelle thinks, the weapon in Eve’s hand, the way a nice belt or good pair of heels would. She licks her lips and turns toward the door. Eve probably would not shoot her in the back but, crucially, Villanelle’s bloodlust was rapidly morphing into something else, something warmer but no less feral. Her fingers twitch. She wants to  _ touch.  _

It’s only a few steps until she’s facing the door. Eve follows behind, her presence tugging at Villanelle like a magnet. She reaches for the door, then pauses, an idea forming. 

Instead of the door, she reaches inside her jacket, her hand ducking into an interior pocket. Behind her, Eve stiffens. Villanelle is gambling, she knows. But she cannot allow herself to be marched out of Eve’s apartment at gunpoint like some common burglar without at least some consolation prize. Her fingers twine in green silk, the cool touch contrasts sharply with the hot flush pricking at Villanelle’s neck, settling over her cheeks. If Eve could see her face there’d be no secrets between them. She’d know exactly how Villanelle used the scarf. Had Eve seen too? Had she  _ watched?  _

Villanelle hums at the thought, tugging the scarf out of its pocket and turning back to face Eve. 

“Before I go, though,” she says, drawing out the words. “You left this behind, last time. It gets chilly this time of year. We don’t want you getting cold.” 

All the air goes out of the room. Time takes on that same heavy, sticky feeling and Villanelle swears she can feel every air molecule, every oxygen atom as she inhales. They face each other, mirror images, Eve with her gun, Villanelle with her scarf. There’s an echo of another time, of screaming women, of the two of them, guns drawn, eidetic but not quite real. A memory that’s not a memory.  _ Don’t break my heart _ , Villanelle wants to say. She wiggles the scarf instead and the impression dissipates like ripples in a pond. 

Eve’s eyes widen just a fraction and for the first time all night Villanelle has a handhold, has a crack she can stick her fingers in, punch her whole fist into until it shatters because she  _ knows.  _ Oh Eve.  _ Eve.  _

Villanelle grins, full and feline. There is no going back. She chose this, she bit the apple, let the juice drip down her chin, reveled in it. She wants to dart forward, wants to wrap the scarf around Eve’s throat, to bite her lips until they bleed as she winds the scarf into a noose and  _ pulls.  _ She practically purrs as Eve snatches away the scarf, can feel the burning shame painted so clearly across Eve’s face. 

“Get. Out.” 

But Villanelle doesn’t need to be told twice, has decided she’s pushed this game of chicken as far as she’s willing with a gun involved and skips out the door, slamming it shut behind her as she struts down the hall. 

And when she’s back in her hotel room, under the covers, she touches herself for hours, drifting off to visions of Eve writhing beneath her, only this time, Villanelle doesn’t even kill her at the end. 

************

Morning tugs at the edge of Villanelle’s consciousness and she stretches in the filtered sunlight like a spoiled Maine Coon, a perfect predator turned housecat. Had she been in her flat in Paris she’d be awash in pink silk and expensive throws. But that flat and all its luxurious trappings were a world away now. The locks had been changed, literally and figuratively, leaving Villanelle with scratchy hotel sheets. No matter, she’d made due. She was scrappy like that. 

Turning onto her stomach, Villanelle sighs, drifting off into honeyed thoughts of running her hands through thickets of wild curls. There’s blood in this one, seeping out of a gash in Eve’s jugular matching time with the beating of her heart. It’s warm on Villanelle’s fingers as she slides her hand down … 

A bag of crisps crinkles from somewhere in the room and Villanelle’s eyes shoot open. 

Her hand finds the switchblade under her pillow in a microsecond, the blade gleaming in the lazy morning sun as she points it at her intruder. She hardly needs to look, she knows who it is. Only one person would have the  _ gall  _ to break into her hotel room unannounced.

Konstantin. 

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to play with your food?” he asks around a mouthful of crisps and honestly, who eats those this early in the morning? Villanelle frowns, either he’s talking in riddles or her head is still hazy from sleep. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“This Polasky woman — ”

“Polastri,” Villanelle corrects him too quickly but she can’t resist how her tongue curls over the last syllable, like she’s licking a lollipop or something else entirely too sweet. 

“Ha,” Konstantin coughs, giving her a knowing look. “Polastri, right. This Polastri woman - you have not killed her yet. She’s still alive, no?” 

“I’m working on it,” Villanelle whines, leaning back on her pillows and dropping her knife hand. She keeps the blade out, though, keeps it close. “She is … challenging.” 

“Her?” Konstantin asks, holding up a photo of Eve, the same one MI6 had sent Villanelle. She admits that the other woman doesn’t look particularly threatening in it, but they didn’t  _ know  _ Eve like she knows Eve. “She is a challenge for you? You really have lost your touch.” 

Villanelle snarls. How  _ dare  _ he. Villanelle is exceptional. Eve had said so herself.

“Hey! I am incredibly talented,” Villanelle answers, echoing Eve’s earlier words. “I am  _ amazing. _ ” 

“Sure,” Konstantin replies. “You are amazing. That’s why I had to arrange this job with MI6 to bail you out.” 

Villanelle pouts. 

“This is … a fluke. A slump. All the greats have them. I will be back to myself in no time.” 

“They are getting impatient.” 

Villanelle swallows. She’s uncomfortable, suddenly. She’s being pushed into a corner, the space she thought she occupied and reality not quite overlapping so neatly anymore, like a double exposure. 

“Impatient? It’s only been a few weeks. They know,” Villanelle falters. “They know I’m good.” 

Konstantin hums, shaking his head as he takes a few heavy steps toward the bed. She can’t parse out what he’s thinking but surely as her handler, as the person most intimately familiar with her work over the last three years, surely he would be on her side, would defend her. Right? 

“Do you know,” he starts. “Do you know how many times I’ve had to cover your ass? How many times I had to go out of my way to argue on your behalf when you went and did stupid shit, when you’d gotten too dramatic? Do you have any idea?” 

Villanelle can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. 

“More or less than five?” 

“More.” 

“More or less than ten?” she asks, half outraged, half wounded. 

Konstantin doesn’t answer, but that’s an answer in itself. More. 

Villanelle’s mind is tearing itself apart, unable to reconcile her own perfection with these perceived flaws. This was her  _ job.  _ She was born to do this, to hunt, to kill. If she can’t do that, if she’s not good … 

Konstantin walks over to the edge of the bed, unaffected by Villanelle’s existential crisis. For a moment, it looks like he considers reaching his hand out to cup Villanelle’s face, before thinking better of it. Smart move, Villanelle thinks. He probably wouldn’t get that hand back. 

“Listen to me, Villanelle.” His voice is lower now, almost soft. It’s ... almost fatherly, or at least how that sounds in movies. She nods. She’s listening. She is  _ good.  _

“Did you like your life, back in Paris?” She nods again. Of course. “Did you like your cool flat? Your credit cards? All your beautiful clothes?” Villanelle keeps nodding, like a child because she wants, she  _ wants. _ “Did you like your clean passports so you could travel? Did you like being safe?” 

“Yes,” Villanelle finally answers, her bottom lip stuck out in an exaggerated pout, her eyes wide and eyebrows turned just so, in her best facsimile of remorse. She’d never personally felt it, but this is how the people in films look when they’re meant to be sorry and maybe, maybe if she contorts her face like them she’ll feel it too. 

Instead, Konstantin’s face hardens, any paternal affection gone. Villanelle feels a flicker of fear. Her grip tightens on the knife. 

“Then you’ll do as I say,” he says, his voice positively glacial. “You will stop fucking around. You will kill this Eve Polastri woman and get MI6 off our backs. You will come back to me. And maybe - maybe you get some of those things back.” 

He holds up a finger as he speaks. It’s thick and fat and Villanelle’s whole focus is on that finger because if she moves, if she so much as breathes she will drive her switchblade into Konstantin’s throat and he will gurgle and bleed out on this bed and she will have a lot more problems than the hotel’s cleaning bill. It would not be smart but the impulse is there, tickling her throat. The muscles in her arms flutter. 

“And what if I don’t?” she asks, still barely moving, barely breathing. She’s trying to be so many things - remorseful, not threatening, not someone who stabs Konstantin. It’s exhausting and soon something will crack. 

Konstantin barks out a laugh as his answer. He’s smiling but his eyes are hard. Villanelle’s never seen them like this before. Or maybe she just never noticed. 

“If you don’t? Well, they will send someone else to do it and they will be not so nice. I’m thinking Raymond.” 

Ugh, Villanelle thinks.  _ Raymond.  _

“And then,” he continues, leaning forward just so. “They will probably come for you too. And I will not be there to protect you.” 

Konstantin stands and moves to leave, turns his back on Villanelle. It’s not a wise move, turning his back on someone so full of tigrine impulse and so little self-control but Villanelle feels as if she’s been tossed into ice water, as if the hotel’s queen bed is keeping her afloat and one rolling wave will send her sinking into the deep. 

“Oh, and before I forget,” Konstantin adds, stopping on his way out the door to toss a brochure and new passport onto Villanelle’s bed-turned-liferaft. “The pamphlet is for your new accommodations. Checkout here is at noon. If you’re going to play, you’ll be staying somewhere more budget-friendly.” 

The door closes and something wells up inside Villanelle, something unpleasant and sour. Her eyes wander to the pamphlet — it’s for a fucking motel of all places, the kind with doors directly to the outside and some sort of communal hot tub that’s advertised as an actual amenity and not just a human-sized lobster pot full of bacteria. Wetness pricks at the corners of her eyes. How  _ dare _ Konstantin. 

She remembers Russia, remembers the dancing bears you could still find performing in road-side shows. They infuriated her. Not because the practice was cruel, but she couldn’t stand how the bears would just take it, would twirl and balance on a fucking ball for bits of jerky. You are  _ bears _ she wanted to yell, great snarling things full of claws and teeth and you could rip this fat man’s throat out for a better meal than this fucking jerky, these dried bits of dog food. Don’t you know, don’t you know how glorious you are? 

Villanelle thought she was glorious too, a magnificent powerful thing whose purpose was to be better than, to be worshiped, to prey on those lesser and dominate. Her mind wanders to those bears again, her mind emending those memories, stitching in the parts she missed as a child. She sees now the great iron shackles around their necks, the heavy chains. They could gnash their teeth, rip out the conductor’s throat but those shackles, those bindings, would always be there, weighing them down. She feels the pressure on her own shoulders now, constricting around her throat and she wonders how her leash, once so long she hardly noticed it, had suddenly grown so short she could barely move. She wonders if she could somehow break the tether, pull it out of the conductor’s hands, would she be free or would it weigh her down too, drag behind her until someone else picks it up. She wonders how the binds tightened so gradually she didn’t notice until it was too late.

Eve Polastri. On paper, Eve Polastri was wholly unremarkable. Just an office worker in MI6 who stuck her nose in where it didn’t belong. But somehow, she was at the center of all of this. If Villanelle killed her, she could have her old life back, step back into those days in Paris like this never happened, like the last few months were a nightmare driven by her brain’s own ennui. A diversion away from her rightful path - her cool flat, her fun job. 

She looks at the pamphlet one more time, a hand absently rising to her throat, seeking out the phantom binding to try and find purchase, find some breathing room and for the first time in a long time, likely ever, Villanelle wonders about what she actually wants, if all those pretty things, those gilded fixtures and luxury trappings are worth the bruises on her neck from the chains. 

Her ringtone interrupts the moment of solemn rumination, the upbeat pop so utterly in contrast with the weighty feeling in the room. Villanelle digs her phone out from under the blankets - an unknown number is calling. 

She accepts the call, bringing the phone to her ear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are officially at 43 pages. Can you believe? Welcome to the longest thing I've ever written.


	8. Can we meet again, meet and meet and meet again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Black Friday, y'all

***30 minutes earlier***

At some point, Eve’s life has morphed from a horror movie into a comedy. 

A terribly dark comedy, but a comedy nonetheless. Like she’s stuck in some fucked up version of Groundhog Day: waking up every morning, going to work, coming home, fighting off Villanelle trying to kill her, falling asleep and waking up to find the world has reset and she has to live it all over again. She’s at her desk now, yawning so wide she’s pretty sure she heard her jaw crack because shit, she’s been putting in some late nights. It’s hard to sleep when every creak might be a certain gorgeous assassin coming back for round two. 

And that’s another thing. At some point Eve’s mind stopped letting Villanelle just be Villanelle. No, she’s  _ gorgeous _ Villanelle. Breathtaking. Resplendent. _ _

In short, Eve’s brain is a goddamn  _ traitor.  _

Nevermind that sitting inside her bag is a certain green scarf. She should have burned it. Lit it on fire and tossed it in the sink. Threw the ashes into the wind and disappeared along with it. That’s what a sane person would have done. A rational person. 

Eve left rational behind a long time ago. Left it in the dust. _ _

It smells like her, like fucking essence of Villanelle and Eve wanted to shred it to pieces, throw it onto the train tracks, stuff it into a passing baby stroller, anything to get away from it, from her. And yet she’s fighting every atom in her body not to wind it around her neck and inhale, slip deeper into the dumpster fire that has become her life. Her fingers flex around air and she wonders if asphyxiating herself with the scarf would be erotic or morbid. Probably both. Villanelle would think both. Would probably do unspeakable things to herself to the image of it all. Eve’s cheeks flush. 

See? A goddamn traitor. 

So far the day is shaping up to be another completely unremarkable day at MI6, the supposed stalwart of security for the whole of Britain. The only excitement so far being that someone brought in pastries for the floor, because they’ve all collectively agreed to screw health and proper sugar intake, let’s hurl ourselves into a premature death in the most pleasurable way possible. Eve’s eaten three - well more than her share but fuck, she’s trying to outsmart and outrun an assassin half her age. She needs those extra calories, needs that edge. 

Speaking of assassins, hers it noticeably absent so far this morning. It’s the only wrinkle distinguishing today from any other recent day. Not that anyone else has noticed - they’re all moving through the well-worn treads in the carpet with their heads down, totally apathetic, unquestioning of the world around them. 

Eve wonders, again, if perhaps  _ she  _ is the crazy one here.  _ I think I made you up inside my head.  _ Which, Eve was horrified to learn through some Googling, is a villanelle, apparently a type of poem. Of course her new obsession would require a fucking Master’s degree in English Lit. 

She sighs, her bones sinking into her office chair. She feels a deep kinship with Sylvia Plath, a true understanding because frankly, sticking her head in an oven is starting to sound like a good idea. 

“Good to know I’m not the only one inhaling croissants,” Elena says, appearing out of nowhere and honestly, Eve wonders if she has some sort of radar, an alarm that goes off in her brain letting her know her good friend Eve is about to either die of tedium or go batshit. She brushes the veritable mountain of crumbs off Eve’s desk and onto the floor with a shit-eating grin. Eve huffs, guilty but indignant. 

“I’ve had a rough few days,” Eve answers. A rough life, really. 

“Yeah, I noticed you’ve not,” Elena pauses, her face screwed up a bit, like it’s resisting being serious. “You’ve not really been yourself lately.” 

That’s funny, Eve thinks, because she’s felt more like herself in the last few days than she has in years. Like she’s wide awake. 

“Which brings me to why I’m here,” Elena snaps back, serious time over. “I’ve found someone to set you up with!” 

“Oh no,” Eve replies, almost falling out of her chair she’s gesturing so wildly. “Oh no, no no no. I can’t. I absolutely cannot -”

“Why?” Elena asks, not impressed. “Are seeing someone?” 

“Define seeing.” 

“Fucking someone. Regularly and exclusively. With feelings.” 

“Uh,” Eve swallows. Somehow she doesn’t think watching that video of Villanelle in her bed a dozen or so times -  _ for research! _ \- counts in Elena’s eyes. “No, then.” 

“Good,” Elena says with a smile, her eyes alight. “I have just the person for you.” 

“It’s not V — uh, Julie, is it?” Eve blurts out. 

“No,” Elena sighs, looking back at Frank’s now empty office. “No. She was promising though. Said you were beautiful. Almost made me gag it was so romantic.” She turns back to Eve. 

“Apparently, though, she’s been promoted up a few levels. Showed some real promise.” 

“For being a secretary?” Eve questions, a grin in her voice.

“Yup,” Elena answers, gesturing to her chest and mouthing ‘great tits’ while nodding. Eve raises her eyebrows but doesn’t disagree. 

“Anyways, I have found just the right person…”

“No,” Eve says, clapping her hand down on her desk for extra emphasis, some extra leverage. She turns away from Elena and back to her computer screen. 

“Oh come on, Eve,” Elena whines, slipping off Eve’s desk and circling around, following her gaze until she’s practically hanging in front of the monitor. “Please. Please trust me.” 

Eve levels a stare at Elena. Elena is an agent of chaos, she knows from experience. She is not to be trusted. 

“Listen,” Elena starts again, undeterred. “She’s one of my dearest friends. You’ll like her. She’s nice.” 

Poor Elena, Eve thinks. Poor sweet Elena, who thinks ‘nice’ is some sort of selling point, like extra airbags in a minivan designed to cradle you in a fiery wreck. 

Eve, though. Eve doesn’t do  _ nice.  _ She tried, a long time ago, was even married to it a lifetime ago, to a veritable Labrador Retriever of a man. She burned through him like a cigarette, taking his name and his heart and leaving him a pile of ashes. Eve tears through nice like a bull in a china shop, smashing everything that says ‘handle with care’ into a million mirrored pieces. Some people deserve nice, and Eve wishes them well but she is not one of them. She deserves something that will  _ hurt.  _ That will fight back. 

“I don’t —” 

“I don’t care,” Elena cuts her off, finding none of these excuses holding water and hellbent on marching her supposed friend through the shredder that is Eve Polastri. “I’ve already given her your number. She’ll text you later today. You will go out with her.” 

Elena marches away, leaving no room for argument and Eve sighs for what feels like the millionth time. Given that it’s only about 9:30 a.m., Eve figures she’s right on schedule. 

_ But,  _ Eve thinks,  _ considering Villanelle now knows where I live, maybe a night out wouldn’t be such a bad thing. _

And that might be the worst part of all this — not that someone is trying to kill her, but that she’s now being forced to  _ socialize.  _ Ugh. 

Just when she’s about to zone out to her next report, a notification pops up on Eve’s phone. Words with Friends. Eve’s heart hiccups in her throat. Kenny has played a new word. 

Perfidy. 

_ Okaaay,  _ Eve thinks, snatching up her phone and standing. It’s a loaded word, sure, but on brand as of late. Treachery. Deceit.  _ Aren’t we all dealing in a little bit of that these days? _ Eve thinks. She makes her way down to the employee lockers, still deserted, as always. Fumbling a bit with the combination, it takes Eve a few tries to get it open, but there it is — a new burner phone sitting inconspicuously inside. She grabs it and flips it open, entering the codeword. P-E-R-F-I-D-Y. Which is more work than you might think without a keyboard. 

Success. The menu unlocks and Eve navigates to a file folder on the tiny screen and opens it. She’s greeted with the photo of a correspondence, because of course Kenny couldn’t make this easy. Though if it were easy they both would have been caught long before now, so Eve grits her teeth and squints, bringing the phone up until her nose is practically touching the keypad. 

From what Eve can make out, it’s another kill contract between Carolyn and a man named Konstantin. Eve recognizes the name - he was the middle man for the contract on her life as well. This one is less formal, parts of it are handwritten, with a bit of Russian mixed in to obscure its true purpose. Eve’s Russian is certainly rusty but she gets the general idea as she skims.  _ Upon elimination of prior target, Eve Polastri,  _ she reads,  _ initiate Operation Cleanup and liquidation of the asset: so-called Codename Villanelle.  _

Eve rereads the text. Then reads it again. And again. And again. 

_ Payment upon confirmation of threat removal.  _

Oh shit. 

_ Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit. _

Eve’s mind is spinning like a top, whirling like a fucking gyroscope because of course, of fucking  _ course  _ Eve is just the start of this, that once she’s dead they’ll go after Villanelle. Can’t leave someone around who knows what they’ve done, can’t leave a witness to their treachery. Their perfidy. So they’re just going to, to liquidate Villanelle. Like she’s fucking merchandise. 

Eve chews her lip, worries it between her teeth until she tastes the metallic twang of blood. At the bottom of the correspondence, handwritten presumably by Kenny, is a phone number. Her next move turns over in her mind as she polishes it, smooths over the rough edges. A rational person would stay out of this. Eve has enough to worry about, what with Villanelle trying to kill  _ her.  _ Not to mention the bona fide cache of government secrets she has squirreled away, ready to dump into the press. 

But, Eve thinks, smiling, she left rational behind a long time ago. 

She dials the number. On the other end, someone picks up. 

“Villanelle.” 

“Wha - how does everyone have this number? Is it on, like, a list or something?” 

Eve smiles. She is ... oddly relieved to hear the other woman’s voice. A confirmation that Villanelle exists, even when Eve can’t see her. Object permanence. 

“And by the way,” Villanelle continues, huffing. “That is a very rude way to answer the phone. Clearly they do not teach manners at MI6. A better way would be, ‘Hello Villanelle. How are you? I miss you at work today and was thinking about you and wanted to call…” 

“Are you busy?” Eve asks, cutting Villanelle off. 

“Other than trying to kill you? No, not really,” she answers. Eve imagines she’s stretched out on a bed in a hotel somewhere like a lazy cat, cleaning her claws. “Lucky for you, though, I am on a break.” 

“A break?” 

“Yes, a break. Assassins are very conscious of labor laws.” She’s funny, Eve thinks, in a rude way. And smart as a whip. Eve wonders how many other facets of this woman she’ll uncover before this is over, how many edges to this diamond in the rough. 

“Good. Because I want to see you.” 

There’s a pause on the other end. She’s caught Villanelle off guard, has left her without an insufferably charming remark to bite back with. Points to her. 

“I know we’ve covered this already,” Villanelle replies, slowly. “But I feel like I must ask again — you know I’m trying to kill you, right? Like, that it is my job to kill you. I am a highly trained, very expensive assassin contracted to murder you, Eve Polastri.” 

“I know.” 

“And instead of running away, you have called me because, you want to see me? Because you, what, want to get lunch? Catch up? Like, girlfriends?” 

“Yes.” 

On the other end, Villanelle makes a low sound, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. Eve recognizes it from the security footage, from right before Villanelle slid into her bed. It cuts through to Eve’s gut, and lower, electrifying her. 

“This is … highly irregular.” 

“Yeah, well my life has been highly irregular lately. And,” Eve swallows, thinking of the contract she’d just read. “I have something that will interest you.” 

“Is it you?” Villanelle asks, her voice bright. 

“No,” Eve laughs. “It’s not me.” 

“A shame,” Villanelle says, sounding bored, like she's twirling her hair, distracted. “And dangerous. You know, so few things interest me lately.” 

“I do.” 

Another beat. 

“You do,” Villanelle rasps and Eve can see her, the way she opened like a flower in the dark of her apartment, like Eve was the sun. Hazel eyes wide and gleaming.

“So trust me. You’ll want to see this,” Eve says. “Tomorrow, for lunch. I’ll text you the location.” 

“Okay.” 

“See you soon.” 

“See you soon, Eve.” 

Eve shuts the phone and closes her eyes, leaning back until her head knocks against the metal locker, steadfastly trying to ignore the gooey feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

_ What the fuck am I doing?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by an excess of turkey and some time off from work


	9. I wasn't born to follow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who has a week off and nothing to do but write? *raises hand*

The call ends, but Villanelle holds the phone to her ear as if there is some minute chance the other woman forgot to hang up. Like she may have missed the button somehow and is still unknowingly on the line so that Villanelle might have a connection, however unintentional, fragile. A tether to something real, to the concrete terms Villanelle usually deals with, the stark line of life and death rather than the conceptual maze she’d been dropped in. A hall of mirrors that has left her spinning, staring at infinite versions of herself and wondering which is the way out. 

A vibration against her face jolts Villanelle back to reality and to the world at hand. The sender’s number is just a jumble of digits, or maybe a code? Villanelle does not have time to play games, she knows it is from Eve, the address of an assuredly average cafe in the bustling heart of London, as promised. Very public. Plenty of potential witnesses. It would be difficult to plan, especially with only 24 hours notice, and not her preferred method of dispatching Eve, but it would not be impossible. She’d done it before - it is remarkable how discreetly you can slice open an artery if you know just where to plunge the knife, like punching a punch card. But it is never as fun slipping into the current of the crowd and disappearing. She prefers to linger, admire her workmanship, absorb it the way a sponge would absorb the blood, soak in the violence of it. 

_ Do you know how many times I’ve had to cover your ass?  _ Villanelle sneers at Konstantin’s voice, at the seed of doubt planted in the concrete of her ego, its roots already starting to make cracks, however small. He was bluffing, she thinks. He is a master of bullshit. She does not know much about the Twelve, but she knows they do not tolerate mistakes, deviance. She would already be dead by now, some hulking brute would have come to retire her. Or maybe Raymond, come to extract his revenge for how Villanelle tortured him during his brief stint as her handler. Definitely bluffing. Maybe. 

Her phone vibrates again, now with a time. Villanelle cradles the phone in her hand, resists the foolish urge to trace the message with her finger, to read and re-read the stark message over and over like some lovesick schoolgirl, to fall back against the mattress and imagine Eve hidden away in some dark corner of MI6 typing out messages to her. Of Villanelle taking up a larger and larger space in Eve’s brain like an invader or, better, a parasite. She instead allows herself one long, glorious sigh and a flirty wink emoji as a response. After all, she only has about an hour at best before housekeeping starts trying to break down the door ahead of her forced checkout and that’s just not a lot of time to drum up a number of ludicrously expensive deliveries and have them charged to the account attached to the room. 

***

Villanelle’s assessment of their meeting location is, as always, spot on, and entirely predictable, designed to give Eve the edge in whatever this turns out to be. Sitting on a corner, the cafe has two glass fronts that converge in line with the point in the sidewalk, allowing someone inside to have a vantage of those coming and going from both sides of the building, along with anyone outside to have full view of the cafe from behind the safety of the glass. The outdoor seating has long been ceded to London’s seasonable wet misery, but Eve would have preferred a spot inside anyways for a more controlled approach. It’s tactical in a way Villanelle hadn’t initially expected from the other woman but she has now come to appreciate. Villanelle grins and approaches the cafe head-on - the double doors creating the only blind spot - heedless of the angry horns honking and squealing tires as she confidently crosses the busy intersection on the diagonal, stopping all traffic. Eve Polastri, once a mystery so inscrutable, was beginning to come into focus. 

Villanelle resists the urge to check her reflection in the mirror of the window, only just keeps her vanity in check so as to prevent it from giving her away and instead chooses to project an air of confidence befitting of the expertly tailored suit she’d picked out that morning, the bold pattern designed to immediately draw the eye of everyone in the cafe. If Eve wanted to blend in with the crowd, hide in plain sight, well, Villanelle had no choice but to disrupt that little fantasy. 

Eve is at the back of the cafe, against the wall with her seat facing the entrance. Villanelle finds her easily, her body slipping perfectly into the other woman’s orbit. Eve’s head is down, a lush curtain of hair cloaking her face but Villanelle can tell she’s noticed her too, felt the tremor in whatever gravity they’re exacting on each other. She looks up and their eyes catch, like two gears slotting into place and for a flash, the way out of the maze is clear, the escape illuminated.  _ Just you and me.  _ Then, as quickly as it was there it’s gone — the strike of a match in a dark room quickly snuffed out. She dodges a server and continues on toward the table, toward neither her doom, nor her salvation, regardless of how poetic the notion might be. Villanelle and Villanelle alone decides her fate. There was a long, bloody trail behind her of those who tried. 

“I did not realize you were the type to want to do this so publicly.” Villanelle takes her seat across from Eve, putting her back to the door but giving her a clear way out of this goes sideways. There’s a sandwich, crisps and small fruit cup waiting for her. Eve’s salad is untouched. There are no knives on the table. “I could have killed you at least six times before you noticed me. Seven if the server had not stepped in my way.” 

Villanelle doesn’t miss the way Eve’s breath stutters a hitch and her eyes widen as she takes in Villanelle’s ensemble. She likes how dark Eve’s eyes are, how it obscures her pupils, giving her a look as if she’s always taking in everything at full intensity but reflecting back nothing. 

“Nice to see you too, Villanelle,” Eve retorts, picking up her silverware to dig into her salad. She gestures with her fork in a manner Villanelle would find casual if the prongs were not pointed right at her. “And I figured this would be public enough to be a kind of, I don’t know, safe space.” 

“A safe space?” Villanelle raises an eyebrow. No space is safe from her. The notion is absurd. 

“Yes,” Eve draws out. “A safe space. A place where we can put a pause to, to whatever it is we’re doing, and have a real conversation.” 

A pause. Like this is a game. Like Villanelle’s livelihood is not caught in the balance. Her standing, her whole sense of being, of self. Ire begins to bubble up in her stomach, tickling her throat. 

“This is not a game Eve,” Villanelle answers, clear and level. “This is not, like, playing tag on a playground. You cannot just call ‘time out’ when I get too close and expect me to wait nicely while you get ready to run. You cannot just stop when you see the flash of the knife.” 

She bites into her sandwich in frustration, lets her teeth tear into something that isn’t Eve’s throat. Eve’s fingers tighten around her fork but she doesn’t react for a long minute. She’s schooling her expression. Villanelle can sense the restraint, is well-versed in the pull of impulse. She gives Eve credit for not rising to the bait and giving in, no matter how good it would feel. 

“Can I see it?” 

The question catches Villanelle mid-chew and she cocks her head, confused, her cheeks no doubt bugling like a chipmunk. She makes no move to cover her mouth or do anything even remotely considered polite, but stops short of answering with her mouth full. 

“Your hand,” Eve gives her by way of explanation, holding out her own.  _ Oh _ . The cut, from where the knife slipped in Eve’s bed as she was gleefully stabbing not-Eve. Villanelle thinks about it for the first time in … how long ago had that been? Months? Years? It feels like an echo from four lifetimes ago but really, Villanelle realizes, it’s been less than 48 hours, less than two days. So far away yet so close all at the same time. She wordlessly offers her hand out to Eve, palm up. She doesn’t know why. 

Eve takes the hand offered to her, cool, soft fingertips cradling it lightly, moving over her palm, testing the edges of the cut. Villanelle hadn’t bothered to dress it. She should have - hands are notoriously prone to infection and without hands it is notoriously difficult to do her job, to kill - but instead she’d left it open to the elements, perhaps hoping Eve would see, would be able to look inside her, at the blood and sinew of Villanelle. She watches Eve, not her hand, and jolts when she feels Eve’s fingers running along the cut, nearly pulls her hand out of the other woman’s grip until she realizes she is putting something on it, some sort of antibacterial gel no doubt, based on the tube sitting on the table. 

Villanelle swallows. Then gulps down her glass of water, wills her body not to choke on the half-melted ice cubes.

It … has been a long time since someone laid a hand on Villanelle who was not trying to hurt her. Or kill her. And for some reason, she believes the woman sitting across from her would do neither. It is a dangerous feeling, this trust. It makes her want to rip off her skin, tear at herself. She snatches her hand back, holds it far away from her as if it betrayed her, is now contaminated by Eve. 

“This is very stupid, Eve,” Villanelle says, trying to fill the air, create distance between herself and whatever  _ that _ just was. “Inviting the person who is trying to kill you out to lunch. I have a very short attention span. You have until,” Villanelle looks down at her - now nearly empty - plate. Apparently she’d inhaled her entire sandwich and bag of crisps already without noticing or tasting either. “Until I finish this fruit cup, to impress me before I start to get bored.” She leans forward to snatch a cruton off Eve’s plate. “And you will  _ not _ like me when I am bored.” She crunches into the crouton for added emphasis. Eve’s move. 

The ghost of a smile on her lips, Eve turns and roots around in her enormously large bag, pulling out a hefty manilla folder and dropping it in front of Villanelle. Villanelle watches it for a long moment, waiting for an explanation. When none comes, she teases the folder open with her finger and is greeted by a highly unflattering mugshot of a woman with a swollen jaw, ratty brown hair, dull eyes and a terrible headscarf. Villanelle looks at the photo, then Eve, then back at the photo, questioning. 

“That .. is me.” 

“Yes.” 

Villanelle sighs. There are at least 160 pages in this file. She does not have the patience to read them and, frankly, if all this buildup has been for Eve to reveal that she knows all about Villanelle’s ‘super secret troubled past,’ well, she’s not the only one who has been watching too many movies. Discovering her ‘humanity’ or whatever will not change this. It will not suddenly make Villanelle remember who she was, will not make her a good person or change how her brain works. That person, who she was, died a long time ago. Villanelle killed her herself. 

“This is quite a lot of reading, Eve,” she remarks, letting her finger run along the edges of the paper sheets. “Could you perhaps give me the, um, what do you call it?” 

“Sparknotes?” 

“Yes! The Sparknotes version?” 

Rolling her eyes, Eve reaches across the table and takes the file, thumbing quickly through it before extracting two sheets, setting them back in front of Villanelle. This was, slightly more manageable, but still Villanelle wanted to see if she could make Eve do her work for her. 

“As you’ve probably guessed, I knew MI6 was reaching out to organizations to take out a contract on my life.” Villanelle hadn’t guessed, hadn’t cared but it explained a lot. “I knew when they made contact with your organization, the Twelve, and when my boss, Carolyn, signed the deal with a man named Konstantin. And I knew you were the one they would be sending.” 

Konstantin. Villanelle’s attention perks up at the name. That is more involvement than he’s hinted at. And how does Eve know all these things? Do they not know how to keep secrets at MI6? Just who was she dealing with? Who had she been sent to kill? 

“Through those same channels, I found another communication between Konstantin and Carolyn,” she gestures to the papers now in front of Villanelle. “Another kill contract. Taken out by Carolyn. Approved by Konstantin. On your life.” 

The world falls silent, save the rush of blood pounding through Villanelle’s heart now eclipsing every single sound as her vision narrows down to a tunnel, to what’s in front of her. Her eyes rush over the papers so fast her brain can hardly keep up, can hardly fit the words together, string them into sentences, give them meaning. Liquidate. Asset. Codename: Villanelle. 

Liquidate. Like last season’s dress. Ripped unsold off the rack to be processed. Disposed of.  _ Unwanted _ . 

“Best I can tell, the hit on me serves two purposes. It gets me out of Carolyn’s hair, or her secrets at least, and eliminates me as a threat. But it also gets you close enough for, um, liquidation, as well. I’m assuming as retribution for Frank, though Konstantin also seems to be gaining something from this. It wasn’t clear in their communications. But once you kill me, they’re going to come after you.”

“Why,” Villanelle spits out. “Why should I trust you? Hm? I’m trying to kill you. This?” She tosses the papers back at Eve. “This could just be a ploy. How do I know this is not an act to get me to stop trying to kill you? To stop me from trying to do my job?” 

Eve sits back in her chair, arms crossed and another one of those infuriatingly vague smiles plastered across her face. Like she’s Buddha, or something, so serene and all knowing. Villanelle runs her tongue along her teeth, along the curve of her canines, reminding herself they’re still there, that she’s still dangerous, feral. 

“Because this isn’t going to stop you,” Eve shrugs. “Because you’re still going to try and kill me, even knowing all this. I think we both know by now this isn’t about the job.” Villanelle’s cheeks flush. She is right, but Villanelle does not like it, does not like feeling caught, somehow, in her indulgence. “If it was about the job, I’d be dead by now. You said it yourself, I interest you. And you’re not willing to give that up just yet.” 

“So if you know this will not stop me from killing you, why show me? Hm? Why risk this?” 

“Because,” Eve sighs. “Lately I’ve developed a bad habit of not minding my own damn business. And this,” she drops the folder in front of Villanelle again, “is  _ so _ not my business. But I have this weird belief that people should actually know what’s going on around them. Especially when they’re being lied to. And,” Eve swallows. “And you interest me, too. You’re just trying to kill me. Which, in a weird way, makes you the only person whose motivations I can trust right now. That’s pretty sad, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Villanelle nods, leaning forward, trying to catch a glimpse, some reflection of herself in Eve’s eyes. If only she could tip forward into her, let Eve study her, discover all the things about Villanelle she finds interesting.

“So what now? We run away together? Like Bonnie and Clyde? We go to Alaska, to a little log cabin and chop wood and wait for them to find us? Are we a team now?” It is a joke, designed to bite because this is becoming too familiar, too close and if Villanelle makes it a joke she can pretend there isn’t a part of her that wants it.

“You don’t do teams, Villanelle,” Eve answers. “You kill your teammates.” 

“You know, I am going to kill you.” 

“Yes,” Eve replies.

“You are remarkably calm for a woman who is going to die.” 

“I am,” Eve chuckles. “It’s given me a sense of focus. A … clarity? That I was lacking before. Like the eye of a storm. And I’ve always worked well under pressure.” 

“You were always going to die, Eve,” Villanelle says. “Even if I never came along.” 

“True, but you’ve certainly added a sense of urgency.” Eve picks up her fork and goes to dig back into her salad, only to find that Villanelle has, at some point, stolen her plate and inhaled her food as well while she was busy talking. Resigned to hunger, she sets the fork back down. 

“I know that you’re going to kill me,” she says. “Because I have to get lucky every time and you only have to get lucky once. The odds, are not in my favor. You’re humoring me now because you find what we’re doing, this back-and-forth, amusing. 

But soon you’ll get bored. You’ll get anxious to see what comes next and I’ll reach into my bag of tricks and come up empty. And that will be it, for me. I’m sure you’ll make it great. The best time I’ve ever had being killed.” Eve’s phone vibrates against the table. She grabs it and tosses it in her bag, starting to gather up her things and tie her hair back. 

“But whatever comes next, Villanelle,” she continues, serious. “Whatever comes after you finish this job, be careful. There are a lot of people out there lying to you.” 

Villanelle reaches across the table, places a hand on Eve’s arm to stop her movement. Eve’s jacket is bulky and terrible but she can feel the heat of the other woman’s body burning bright through the layers. 

“Please,” Villanelle whispers. “Wear it down.” 

Eve holds her gaze for a beat, then releases her hair, letting it fan out over her shoulders, wild and beautiful. 

“You don’t deserve to be stabbed in the back,” she says, her voice low, the words meant for Villanelle and Villanelle alone. “At least make them stab you in the front.” 

Then she’s out the door, leaving Villanelle alone with her file, a black-and-white mugshot from a lifetime ago staring back at her. 


	10. There’s something about the way you are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is LONG but it was time for us to get to know Eve outside of Villanelle, as well as up the stakes just a little. And, full disclosure, the only thing I know anything about is journalism. The rest is true to how it would function in this particular universe

Eve’s stomach growls as she swipes her Oyster card and heads to the train platform. How Villanelle managed to wolf down a salad out from under her without her noticing was seriously concerning and Eve is just grateful she tends to talk with her hands - she’s sure she would have lost a finger had one gotten between Villanelle and her rampage. Next time they’ll have to meet at a buffet, some place that deals in volume over quality or Eve’s going to go broke trying to keep her fed. She at once pities the assassin’s handlers while also drawing up a half-cocked plan to bankrupt the Twelve through Villanelle’s appetite. A war of appetition. She snorts at her own pun. A businessman in a cheap suit pretends to look away and Eve pretends not to think about shoving him in front of an oncoming train. 

_ Wait, next time?  _ God she’s fucked. She absolutely should not be thinking about seeing Villanelle again, should not be borderline planning on it. She’s pretty sure it’s in the spy version of the Ten Commandments, something like,  _ Thou shalt not covet thy smokin’ hot assassin.  _ It’s definitely not one of the big ones, like  _ Thou shalt not breathe without first filing a report _ but further down, when things start to get a little fuzzy. Eve wasn’t good with rules anyway, had spent too long following them and getting nowhere. Maybe it was time to toss those commandments aside, Moses-style and start worshiping at the golden calf of Villanelle. Cast herself into the pyre, let the flames lick the very deepest parts of her and burn the rest. 

Was it hot in here? She tugs at her jacket, the practical bulk suddenly stifling. She’s 90 percent sure she put on deodorant this morning, but between her lunch with Villanelle and her absolute traitor of a brain she’s almost certainly sweated through it.  _ Oh well,  _ Eve thinks. If nothing else it will buy her some space on the crowded train. 

The train doors hiss open and Eve rushes to the back corner, away from windows and prying eyes. Predictably the other commuters keep their distance. Eve has been giving off real crazy vibes lately, has really been leaning into it, letting her hair run wild and not in the ‘effortlessly disheveled’ way. She isn’t sure how much of it is real or contrived but absolutely none of it has anything whatsoever to do with how Villanelle’s eyes glaze over whenever she lets her hair down. 

Eve uses her private blind spot to check her phone, swipes to the Signal app. No new messages. Which means nothing has changed. Good. She needs the train ride to prepare. 

Realistically she knows the messaging app’s double encryption system can be decoded, is probably already in the process of being untangled and slotted together, hackers virtually taping together a whole room’s worth of shredded documents at the speed of processing to catch up to her trail. But that would take hours at best and by then it will be too late. Eve will be sitting in a soundproof room with an investigative reporter and a good friend of hers, who happens to be an editor at the New York Times. Sure, she could have passed this all off to a more local news source, but MI6 was in bed with everyone over at the BBC. An American publication working with a British source and British documents would convolute the inevitable court battle. And, if Eve was being honest with herself, mostly she was just feeling petty. 

This certainly wasn’t how Eve pictured this all shaking out six months ago. She’d wanted something a little more dramatic, a slow drip of damning documents, maybe some sort of encrypted open source site, ala WikiLeaks. Or a worldwide scavenger hunt, something that would really just stir up the pot, breaking through the outrage-induced, media saturated stupor most members of the public seemed to be inhabiting lately. Eve tried, God she tried for so long to twist herself into that space, to force the neural pathways, forge the synapses in her brain to care about whatever everyone else was always talking about, break all her edges into something round and consumable. But all that breaking only made her harder around the cracks, made the contrast so stark she couldn’t keep up the ruse anymore, couldn’t even pretend. 

She allows herself a moment to wonder about what Villanelle sees. Villanelle, who never looks at Eve but instead looks through her, to the raw, pulsing parts of her she’s tried so hard to conceal, like a mouse buried in the leaf litter, trying to control its own heartbeat. Does she recognize that what’s keeping her alive is what’s keeping Eve alive too? Or does she only see her next meal? 

Eve wasn’t lying when she told Villanelle that her appearance had expedited things, added a sense of urgency. It was a race now, to see who would accomplish their objective first. A high stakes game of chicken except with none of the conscience, none of the self-preservation. Eve was feeling unhinged and she’d send them both into an inferno before letting up on the gas. 

When Eve arrives, the office is little more than a closet with three chairs and a card table, the gray soundproofing foam lining the walls closing in on them. It smells of stale cigarettes and the coffee is lukewarm. It is exactly what Eve pictures when she imagines Watergate, imagines Deep Throat and those secret meetings. Of Bob Woodward piecing together the story that would sink a presidency. She loves it. 

“So this is where the magic happens,” Eve remarks as she’s ushered into the room. She takes a seat in the corner, leaving her purse and phone outside the door in case anyone rooting around remotely decides to switch on the mic. Grant, her friend, grunts a response and takes a seat. The other woman, presumably the reporter, says nothing. She looks like how Eve imagines a reporter would look, owly glasses and an expression of pure skepticism, bordering on boredom. She could smell bullshit a mile away and cut through it like a knife.

“I like her,” Eve says, looking at Grant and tilting her head toward the reporter. Eve didn’t ask her name, doesn’t want to know it. Plausible deniability. Grant chuckles. 

“We like her too,” he answers. “She’s the best in the industry for this story.” 

Grant crosses his arms and sits back. His wiry frame makes him look more like a human tongue depressor than a person, but frankly, that’s what most newspaper editors look like. He had that look nailed down when he first crossed paths with Eve way back in undergrad, in some criminal psych intro course. He told Eve then he would be an editor at the New York Times and she believed him. Looking like that, there was nothing else he could be. Divine proclamation. 

They watch each other for a long moment and Eve realizes this must be what it’s like to be in a police interrogation, complete with good cop and bad cop. All that’s missing is the spotlight and the dramatic beads of sweat on her forehead. Actually, she brings her fingertips to her forehead, never mind. She has those in spades. 

“So remind me how this is going to work again?” Eve remembers, of course, but she’s searching for the magic words that will get this interview rolling, for someone to say ‘ Open Sesame’ and all her secrets come spilling out. 

“Of course,” Grant says, his voice annoying unaffected for someone who is about to receive top-level government secrets. The good stuff too, the Grey Poupon of secrets, not fucking mustard. “You’ve told us already about the documents you’ll be providing to us. We’ll be asking you questions to put that information into context. We’ll protect your identity as much as we legally can, but we need to know more about you and your relationship to this information, both to present the whole story, but also to help us defend the story if we’re challenged about using an anonymous source. I know who you are, Eve, but my boss doesn’t and he needs to, needs to know why we’re granting your anonymity.” 

“So people will know who I am.” 

“They will,” he says. “They have to. It’s our credibility on the line too.” 

“And if I say no?” 

“Then we walk away and no one knows this ever happened.” The reporter twitches. She wants to fight, Eve can tell, wants the story and doesn’t want to have flown all the way to England for nothing. “But it will be the same with any other publication you try to go to. Any reputable one at least.” 

Eve chews on it for a moment. Not the anonymity piece, but the feeling of being on a ledge, on a cliff and about to jump off. She always thought there would be more resistance, something holding her back, asking her if she was sure. Like a computer program asking if she was sure she wanted to quit, if she was sure she wanted to rip out that USB stick. But Eve of all people should know by now that there are no safeguards, no bumper lanes in life. No, those are only human designs, artificial recreations of what we wish we had. 

“Let’s do it, then.” 

“Great. I’m going to pass the interview off to Rose, then, and I’ll keep notes. We’re going to forego recording because of the sensitive nature of what we’re dealing with and, as you know, it’s a lot easier to destroy handwritten notes ahead of a subpoena. Audio recordings, on the other hand, are a legal gray area.” 

“Of course.” 

The reporter, apparently Rose, leans forward now. Her eyes rake over Eve, taking in every superficial detail, no doubt wondering how an unassuming near-middle aged Asian woman came to be the one sitting in front of them, trying to save the world. Like she was expecting some suave James Bond-type or nerdy hacker with a heart of gold. Eve is none of those things, has a heart of steel, of jagged glass edges that will rip flesh into ribbons if you’re not careful enough. She stares back, full on.  _ I know what you’re thinking. This isn’t what a hero looks like. Well you’re wrong.  _

“I’d like to start with you, Eve,” Rose offers. Her pronunciation is neutral but artificial. Learned, like TV anchors who speak in an accent no one really has. Purposeful ambiguity. Eve thinks she can detect some roundness and imagines that, in a more relaxed state, this Rose might be a little more country than she lets on. “You’re American, right?” 

“That’s,” Eve pauses. Off to a great start. “That’s complicated. I was born here, in the UK, but my family moved to Connecticut when I was a child. After I got my Master's and my father died, I moved back here.” 

“Why did you move?” 

“I was recruited.” What a strange time that was. Eve remembers packing up her college apartment, 26 years old and unsure of just where she was going to land. She’d had an interview in Quantico, with the FBI, but their background checks and hiring process were notoriously full of red tape and in the meantime Eve had to find a way to pay her rent. “My thesis on better ways to track independent terrorist cells caught someone’s attention in British Intelligence and they were willing to fly me out to consult with a team working in London. They offered me a position pretty quickly after that.” 

“Can we back up a step? What did you study in school?” 

“My undergrad is in criminology,” Eve answers. “I had an interest in female criminals, in what makes women kill, what pushes them to overcome the docile, nurturing, maternal box we as a society try to put women in, pushes them into the traditionally male space of the criminal world.” No one expects a woman to be a criminal, Eve learned quickly, or if they do, they only expect a certain kind of crime, something sexual or pretty. Nothing thrilled Eve like the unexpected. “And, um, psychopaths. I guess you could say my specialty was female psychopaths.” 

“That’s a rather limited pool to study from,” Rose remarks. 

“It is, which is why I moved into terrorism studies for my post-grad,” Eve says. “It was the 90’s, before terrorism was cool - well, not cool, but you get what I’m saying - so I kind of had to twist some existing programs into what I wanted, but my advisors were flexible. My work spoke for itself.” Those were the days.

“And what drew you to study terrorism?” 

“Like I said, it was the 90’s and it was everywhere,” Eve says. “And it was different, too. It wasn’t necessarily these big militant organizations with very public attacks anymore. It was, almost individual. Almost personal. A clan of separatists hoarding guns in the mountains. A car bomb on a residential street. A suicide bomber blowing themselves up at a wedding. Connected but unsophisticated, motivated, driven not by these huge international funding schemes, but by conviction. A true, deep belief in something.” Eve inhales. Just talking about it, answering clinical questions, awakens something in her, stirs to life something long dormant and covered in dust. It’s in these moments Eve realizes just how  _ bored _ she is now, how criminally under stimulated, underused. “I wanted to understand what sends a person over that edge, whether it’s something inside them that led them to be predisposed to it, or whether they can be pushed. In understanding that, we can study how they work and, ultimately, disrupt them.” 

“Is that what you did for British Intelligence?” 

“Yes. I spent almost 20 years analyzing intelligence reports and working with agents in the field to train them in how to infiltrate and disrupt these kinds of unsophisticated cells. We worked all over the world. Northern Ireland, Barcelona, Mogadishu, Cambodia, Kabul, Jordan, Oregon, Chechnya…” 

“What was that like?” 

“It was …,” Eve pauses. How do you describe it? The rush of helicoptering into a region tearing itself apart, of single-mindedly submersing yourself in a conflict, unraveling the cloaks of secrecy, of deception. It was … “Exhilarating. It was exhilarating.” Like a drug, like the first shot of heroin every single time, like a dragon pushed into her veins setting her alight.  _ Wide awake _ . For 20 years it was like that. It was everything. No wonder her husband left her, knew he couldn’t compete and conceded defeat. 

Rose watches her for a long moment. She understands, Eve thinks. She feels the same way about what she’s doing right now. Their eyes meet. Rose nods, then looks back at her notes. 

“Can you explain a little bit more about the methods you were using? About exactly how you were able to uncover these cells?” 

Did they have all day? Eve could talk for hours upon hours, for days even. Could write a book. Probably should, except that would kind of blow the whole ‘anonymous whistleblower’ shtick to smithereens. For a moment, Eve wonders what kind of accommodations a British prison might have before realizing she was committing high treason and would just as likely be hanged. 

“Um, yeah. Sure. I won’t go into exact details because, well, we don’t need any copycats, but I can give you a rough idea.” Where to start? And how much of this was going to be used anyways? She’ll just read the room, Eve decides. Take her cues from Rose. 

“The first thing to understand about these kinds of cells that we’re talking about is that they don’t have money,” Eve says. “The Taliban, Al-Qaeda, ISIS to a certain extent, groups like that, they all have a lot of money behind them. Like, an unbelievable amount. That money buys structure. It buys sophistication. It buys technology. These groups don’t have that. And, interestingly, it makes them harder to track. While a group like Al-Qaeda or another criminal enterprise might be recruiting hackers and have money for fancy encryption tools, most Western governments, with considerable counter terrorism and Homeland Security budgets, have put all their focus there already and can pay way better. A kind of, technological Cold War, with every side trying to beef up and outdo each other. But what that does is create a blind spot. A space where they’re not looking, a space for these cells to exist. That’s where we came in.” 

“So it’s like they’re hiding in plain sight?” 

“Exactly.” Eve likes that. Hiding in plain sight. Isn’t that what she’s been doing this whole time? She learned from the best, after all. “Exactly. The second thing to understand about these groups is that most of them hate Western technology. Either for ideological reasons, or they just can’t afford it. They’re not using iPhones. They’re not Googling. They don’t have EncryptSticks. They’re not on Facebook or Twitter boasting about their exploits the way some of these other groups are. They’re in an internet cafe with hundreds of other people. Or they’re using CB radio, walkie-talkies, anything short of two tin cans and a string. Every layer of sophistication leaves behind a nugget, a clue. These guys leave behind almost nothing. Unless you know where to look.” 

Like on telephone poles, Eve thinks. Flyers with a phone number and little tabs that can be torn off. A classified ad in a newspaper. A pair of shoes strung up in the telephone wire. An empty cab that circles the block but never stops. 

“And during your time, how many attacks would you say your team discovered and disrupted?” 

“That’s a difficult question.” At what point did something become an attack, rather than a plan? A whisper. An idea in the mind of one person. How do you prosecute such a thing? Eve stayed out of that, left it to the field agents. She worked in the black and white, didn’t want to get caught in the morality of it. That’s where things go awry. She knew, had seen it before. “It would be safe to say somewhere in the thousands. All over the globe.” 

“And how many within the UK specifically?” 

“Somewhere between one and two hundred.” For just a second, Rose’s facade cracks, splinters in such a way that Eve can see shock, disbelief shining through. Eve gives herself a kind of mental high-five for shocking a New York Times reporter. She wouldn’t have believed it herself if she hadn’t been there, hadn’t led some of those teams. “Covering everything from a suicide bomber to several dozen pipe bombs mailed to prominent British business leaders to sink the stock market. Even a biological attack. It wasn’t reported in the press, of course. The government felt it was better if the public didn’t know just how often they rubbed shoulders with death.” 

“What happened, then? With your team and the work you were doing?” 

Eve swallows, feels her lip tremble as she fights off a sneer. Her fingers twitch like they want to wrap around something and squeeze. 

“About a year-and-a-half, maybe two years ago, we were told by our supervisors to wrap up any outstanding work we were doing with the field offices. We then went into, I guess, a kind of holding pattern, processing basically mundane field reports and requisitions. It wasn’t unusual - we usually did that before another big project, kind of like a reset before starting something new. Get everybody back on the same page. So no one thought anything of it. In fact, most of the people in my team were relieved.” They’d been working with agents in Mogadishu for nine months uncovering a cell abducting children to use in suicide attacks. It had been … intense, to say the least, with each of them spending considerable time in the city with agents. Eve remembered coming home and still being able to hear gunfire, the jackhammering of automatic weapons firing into the night. Remembered sitting up thinking about the children they didn’t get there in time to save. 

“Only the new project never came. A few weeks turned into a month. Turned into a year, then two. And some of the most talented intelligence officers in MI6 were still processing requisitions.” 

“Did anyone question that? Did they wonder what was going on?” 

“Like I said, most of them were relieved,” Eve says. “They felt like it was their reward for what their country had asked of them. The sacrifices they’d made. Suddenly, they could spend time with their families. They could sleep at night without homemade videos of beheadings or images of children holding live grenades playing in their minds every time they closed their eyes, every time they relaxed.” 

“And what did you think?” 

“That it was a diversion.” Eve didn’t blame her coworkers, most of whom took their pension and an early retirement, their minds and bodies spent. Only Kenny, Bill and Elena, really, were left, and Elena only joined them on the tail end of the Mogadishu project, didn’t ever see the worst of it. “I think — and here’s where I’m going to sound like a conspiracy theorist but I just don’t care anymore, frankly — I think we got too close to something. We were about to get into something they didn’t want us to see, maybe not in that project but somewhere down the line and they pulled the plug on us. Maybe somebody asked a question they weren’t supposed to. I don’t know, it wasn’t me.” 

“Did you ask about what changed?” 

“I mean, yeah,” Eve says. Here’s where her story starts to get a little fuzzy, where truth maybe starts to blend with fiction. Or not fiction, per se, but her own truth of what happened, like going over the edges of the facts with a smudger. “The official line was our funding had basically been redirected. The kind of work we were doing and the groups we dealt with didn’t come with enough political capital to justify our existence. Stopping a bunch of goat farmers from strapping themselves with explosives and blowing up a market just wasn’t as sexy as uncovering some inter-continental cryptocurrency money laundering scheme to fund ISIS. Never mind that there are way more disgruntled goat farmers than cryptocurrency schemes in the world.” 

“How did you come across the documents you’ve provided us with?” 

_ Here we go, _ Eve thinks. The question she’ll die for answering, whether Villanelle catches her or she’s hanged as a traitor. 

“About six months ago, I noticed a discrepancy in the reports we were being asked to process,” Eve explains. “It wasn’t anything radical, just slight changes - the wording was different in one, or the coordinates different in another. We’d also started getting reports from offices we didn’t previously have a relationship with, which I had previously assumed was the result of work being done by another division still out working in the field. And then, a report came across my desk that was … unlike anything I’d ever seen before. I won’t go into detail exactly how it was different, but it caught my attention.” 

“What did you do with this report?” 

Eve swallows again but she has no spit left. There’s no water in this damn room and she’s sweated out every last ounce of moisture. She feels like a raisin. She would kill for some chapstick. 

“I copied it. I copied the report.” 

“Are you allowed to do that?” 

“No,” Eve answers. “It’s strictly against protocol.” 

“Why did you copy it then, Eve?” 

_ What are you, a cop? _ Eve thinks. She looks at Grant, whose pencil has stalled, waiting against the notebook for Eve’s answer. He gives her nothing. She must find her own way out. 

“Because I believed it was a matter of national security to understand that report. A belief, I might add, that was later proven right.” 

“How? What did you find out?” 

“The report was written in code.” Eve is getting frustrated. This whole experience hasn’t been as self-gratifying as she hoped, hasn’t been enough to exonerate her own doubts, the voice telling her she should have kept her mouth shut. Or, alternately, that this was all fake, planted to set her up. “It was a contract to construct a prison in the foothills of Afghanistan to house … well, anyone they wanted, probably. Anyone who might be anti-British, or anti-Western. Which, understandably, is a whole lot of people. The British government was paying for it, along with training in enhanced interrogation techniques.” 

“Which means…?” 

“Torture. They would be torturing people.” Eve wishes, then, that there was a recorder in the room so she could lean forward into it, like they did in the movies. Loud and clear. 

“We would be torturing people.” 

Rose nods at her, solemn. She looks at Grant, who nods as well. Eve doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t care about whatever message they’re transmitting to each other telepathically. After this interview she’s done with this escapade. As far as she’s concerned she’s done everything she can, did a hell of a lot more than anyone else. It’s time to put it in someone else’s hands now. 

“When you learned about the true nature of the report, what did you do?” 

“I reported it anonymously to the whistleblower hotline.” It’s a lie, but a good one. Eve never reported it, had no intention of it. That would be going all in on a poker hand without waiting for the river. There were risks, of course. Whistleblower status came with protections that certainly would have had Carolyn thinking twice before hiring an assassin to kill her. But it wasn’t worth waiting for the agonizingly slow and inevitably flawed investigation that would follow. Not when Eve could sneak in like a thief in the night, Kenny on her heels decrypting and indexing. Besides, whistleblower complaints weren’t public record, and no one could go back and check her claim without giving themselves away. It was a lie, but a lie no one can prove is really just the truth. 

“What happened?” 

“Nothing. I waited. No investigation came. So I kept going.” 

“What did you find?” 

Eve sighs. She looks up at the ceiling and tries to muster up some relief at finally being rid of this secret. Some feeling of righteousness. Of good being done in the world. Instead there’s only a void where her job, where her life used to be. It tastes like ash, like a world devoid of color. It’s worse than pain, it’s not even an echo. It’s nothing. So much nothing it’s something in its nothingness

“The British government — other branches of MI6, elite military black ops, along with other Western governments and at least one criminal organization — were essentially using these unorganized terrorist cells as a recruiting ground. They used the techniques my team developed and trained them in, and our work uncovering cells and disrupting attacks, as a way to recruit and bring these groups into the fold. Those personnel would then be used to run black sites, places to detain and imprison locals who they believed may pose a future threat. Many of the reports we were being asked to process, are being asked to process, are coded updates on the results of their enhanced interrogations, aka torture. We’ve also used them to smuggle drugs and firearms for us, as well as carry out assassinations. All of this is covered in the documents I’m about to give you.” 

“Why are you giving us these documents today?” 

“Because,” Eve starts. “Because people deserve to know. They deserve to know what their government is doing. What they’re paying for. And because it’s not right, watching this happen and doing nothing. I … I don’t know what will happen to me. But I know that if the public reads this, if this is exposed, it will have been worth it.” 

Grant sets down the pencil and notebook, the interview apparently over. Eve breathes for what feels like the first time since she stepped into the room, once again tastes the smell of cigarettes long snuffed out. She feels like she’s run a marathon, isn’t quite sure her legs will work when she goes to stand. 

“You understand that we’ll have to go over the documents ourselves, right?” he asks. “We have some homeland security experts who have agreed to take a look at them off the record for us and offer their opinions. Then there’s things like matching up dates and the like.” 

“I hope you do,” Eve says. “I hope, I really do, that you find something I missed. Some sentence somewhere that says this is all a joke. That they were just testing us. I hope you find that.” She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out her keyring, unhooks one from the bunch and hands it over to Grant. She’d made the copy in some big box hardware store at one of those minute-key kiosks. It’s painted white with a cat face on it. He goes to take it, then raises an eyebrow at the design. 

“They’d never suspect the kitty key,” Eve offers. He smiles and takes it. She’d messaged him earlier the address and number for a lockbox with all the documents. They were his now, officially. 

She stoops to grab her bag on the way out, pulling out her phone. The screen is lit up with a laundry list of notifications, including half a dozen missed calls and voicemails from a number she doesn’t recognize. Rolling her eyes, she brings the phone to her ear as she walks out the door, pressing play on the voicemail, expecting Villanelle. 

Instead, she gets the shaky voice of an entirely too polite captain with the London Fire Brigade. 

“Hello? Mrs. Polastri? Yes, this is Captain Wells with the fire brigade. Please do give me a call back. It seems your apartment has burned down.” 

Eve lowers the phone from her ear, gives herself one moment, then two, to compose herself. She then throws her head back and yells so loudly it disturbs a nearby flock of pigeons. 

_"Villanelle!" _


	11. My secret weapon is my experience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a big thank you to everyone who has commented on this story so far and who will comment in the future. You guys don't have to do that - you can just read this story and move on. But taking that extra time to leave really thoughtful feedback is very much appreciated. This started as some crazy story I wasn't sure anyone would read or be interested in, especially in a fandom I'd never created anything for, but everyone has been so very nice and encouraging and I hope I can be as kind and encouraging to you as well. 
> 
> Now, enough sappy stuff and let's set to the story

Smoke billows into the London sky like a beacon for all to come and witness Villanelle’s work. The streets are choked with fire trucks, ladders and the occasional ambulance trying to push and weave its way through the mess. The lights dance off the nearby buildings, reflect off the curtain of thick black smoke overhead and Villanelle thinks of the dance clubs in Berlin, how the constant strobes left her feeling pleasantly lightheaded, like she did not know where her body ended and her thoughts began. How euphoric it was to be outside herself, free of the weight that was being  _ Villanelle,  _ if only for a few hours. _ _

“Very subtle.” 

Konstantin appears at her shoulder and for a horrifying second Villanelle wonders if maybe Konstantin is actually a ghost, some specter only she can see sent to torment her, like in that movie she watched with the creepy boy.  _ The Sixth Sense _ . She huffs. 

“Don’t be mad,” she says, turning to look at him. He looks mad. Villanelle does not always pick up on other’s emotions but this is plastered like a billboard across his broad face. “We both know you did not choose me for my subtlety.” 

She turns back to the apartment building. Through Eve’s broken bedroom window she can see a smoldering glow, pulsing orange and red like a cauterized wound, burning up Eve’s belongings, the barriers she’d erected between herself and Villanelle. The fire had been largely contained but oh so intense, a concentrated immolation so beautiful, so borderline orgiastic she’d only barely escaped the febrile flames herself without getting singed. Villanelle had nearly forgotten the rush of a good fire, the release of it, how it consumed everything in its path. 

“Besides, I had nothing to do with it,” she continues, her tone light. “I heard the man next door fell asleep with a cigarette. Can you believe it? Smoking with oxygen tubes. Some people just do not know when to quit. It is like they are asking for it.” 

Konstantin barks out a laugh, like he cannot decide whether to be amused with Villanelle or strangle her and he needs the extra beat to choose. He apparently lands on amused, which is good because Villanelle does not need to attract attention right now for beating up an old man in an alley. 

“Come on,” he says, gesturing with his head, his hands tucked firmly in the pockets of his black overcoat. “Let’s get some food. I’ll pay.” he takes a few steps out of the alley and down the street before realizing Villanelle is not following.

“No,” Villanelle says, and if she is petulant it is because this was not part of the  _ plan.  _ She has choreographed this entire evening and she does not appreciate this interruption, does not appreciate Konstantin trying to change things, the rhythm of it. 

“No?” 

“No. I am not ready to go,” she says with finality. Villanelle is still reveling, the great aria of her work echoing out into the night, stoking the fire inside her, the once choked coals now rekindled. And besides, the guest of honor, her partner in this pas de deux, had not yet arrived. To leave now would throw this whole performance, this dueling duet, out of balance. 

“Eve is not even here yet. I want to see her…” Villanelle falters slightly under Konstantin’s cold glare. “...face. I want to see her face when she comes and sees I burned down her building and all her very practical but ugly clothing. She will be devastated. It will be great.” 

“Eve?” Konstantin’s tone is inscrutable. 

“Uh, yeah? The person whom I am trying to kill? And after I will get back my cool flat in Paris and all my money and all that stuff, like you said? You know, Eve.” 

Konstantin steps toward her, his footfalls heavy and sure and it triggers something in Villanelle, some long dormant fight or flight response, a jolt of adrenaline that tastes metallic in her mouth.  _ This must be what they feel _ , Villanelle thinks, her targets, just before she kills them. Konstantin will not kill her but it is clear he is not coming in for a hug, will not be nice when he reaches her. His eyes are cold and when his hand shoots out to catch her bicep in a vice grip it is cold too but in a burning way, like frostbite. 

“Are you telling me,” he growls into her ear and Villanelle resists the urge to tell him to brush his teeth. She leans away from him instead, eyes trained on the flames and somewhere an alarm sounds, some new chaos erupting from Villanelle’s hands. “Are you telling me Eve Polastri is not in there? Is not trapped, tied up in some closet to be burned to death? Is not a charred, smoking corpse?” He spits each word and Villanelle does not know whether to sneer or look sheepish but her patience is running thin like a razor blade and Konstantin seems to have forgotten that she too, has claws.

“No, she is not,” Villanelle answers. “I thought she might be, when I broke into her neighbor’s flat to start the fire. But she must have been out. Maybe she had plans. She is very popular at work, you know.” She punctuates it with a weak little smile but Konstantin’s clamp on her arm only tightens and oh, that is going to bruise. She will wake up tomorrow with little black and blue blooms, finger-shaped inkblots on her skin and she will press and press into them to try and feel something. 

“Come on,” he says, tugging her off balance and along the street. “We’re going.” 

Villanelle dislikes being led like a misbehaving dog on a leash but Konstantin is right — if he lets her go now she is not so sure she would be able to stop herself from doing something stupid, something impulsive, like driving a knee between his legs and a knife into an eye socket. So she lets herself be dragged into the night, some spark of self preservation telling her the ice under her feet is already thin and the temperature is only rising. 

*** 

“So, who is Eve Polastri anyway?” 

Villanelle asks the question around a mouthful of burger that is surprisingly decent for this side of the city. She smells of smoke. It clings to her clothes and hair and she cannot stand it, does not understand why anyone would take up cigarettes and submit to smelling like this forever, like a burned out chimney. As it is it will take more than the paltry amount motel soap and shampoo allotted to her by housekeeping to get her smelling right again. How she suffers for her art. 

“What do you mean?” Konstantin asks from across the sticky Formica table, his hands and mouth full of french fries. Villanelle likes eating with Konstantin, likes having a partner in the messy indulgence of a meal. 

“I mean, who is she? What did she do that I have to now kill her?” 

“You’ve never asked that before,” Konstantin says, watching her for a beat before resuming his fry intake. 

“I have never been interested before,” Villanelle retorts. “But I am interested now.” 

Konstantin laughs to himself. He dips a fry in sauce — the menu had called it an ‘aioli’ but it just looks like mayonnaise to Villanelle so she avoids it — and pointedly bites it. 

“I can promise you,” he says. “There is nothing interesting about Eve Polastri.” 

_ How very wrong you are,  _ Villanelle thinks,  _ chewing your food, secure in the fact that Eve is no one, not a threat to everything you hold close. You have no idea what Eve is capable of.  _

Even Villanelle does not know what Eve is capable of. The thought sends a hot thrill through her, like her nerve endings have suddenly come alive with want.  _ Wide awake.  _

“So then why does MI6 want to kill her? She works for them, no?” 

“I think,” Konstantin interjects harshly. “There are far more important questions you should be asking. Like, ‘How am I going to kill this target?’ ‘How much longer will my wonderful handler Konstantin have patience for my dawdling?’ Hm? What about those questions?’” 

He picks up his own burger then, taking a massive bite. 

“How long have you worked for the Twelve?” Villanelle asks instead. Konstantin goes stock still, the burger still half in his mouth, his teeth still sunk into the meat of it. A glob of ketchup drips down onto his plate. Villanelle tilts her head, pausing briefly for a response. When none comes she continues. 

“Where do you get your orders from? Have you always been a handler? Have there been others you have looked after, like me? What happens when they die? Who pays you?” She is being annoying now, purposefully needling without expecting any real answer in return but maybe … maybe if he would answer she could find some clarity, find some path forward. Could prove that Eve was lying to her, that she is safe here, with Konstantin, as she had always been since he showed up at that dingy shithole of a prison four years ago with a way out, a new life. The closest to hope Villanelle had since her time with Anna was so violently cut short. 

Konstantin chews his food slowly, watching her. Villanelle mirrors him, chewing in time with his molar movements. They sit across from each other, perfect opposites. How many times had they done this? Shared a meal in some hole-in-the-wall after a job. In those four years, in Villanelle’s whole lifetime, how many times had she prodded at him like this, deliberately testing the rope without knowing that one day it would run out? That it would loop around her neck so she might hang herself?

She has a thought, fleeting and soft on her shoulder like bird. If she sits here, in this cafe in the grungy side of London, if she sits here and chews while Konstantin chews, if they sit here and stare at each other without moving, then nothing has to change. This moment, her life as it was, could be preserved in amber, hard and sticky, for eternity. They could stay here, on the edge of this cliff, always looking out at the unknown but never jumping, never being pushed over. Because the moment one of them moves, the moment one of them goes to their hip to draw in this quickshot duel, it will all be over. The illusion of this, of the two of them as they always were, sharing a meal as they always have, will shatter. 

Konstantin’s phone vibrates loudly against the table and they both flinch. He reaches out with sticky hands to flip it over, gives a quick glance at the number before standing. 

“I have to take this,” he says, gruff. “I’ll be right back.” 

Villanelle waits until the bell over the door chimes to signal his departure before she moves again, before she lets out the breath she had been holding. She chides herself for thinking this could end any differently. How stupid she was, imagining she could live in this suspended animation. For believing that this was some tipping point, somehow. The scales had tipped, the axis tilted between them when Villanelle had decided she no longer wanted to be Konstantin’s pet, and when Konstantin and Carolyn Martens decided they no longer wanted Villanelle alive. This was just an extension, a long, drawn out suffering rather than the quick death she is used to. 

She reaches over, taking Konstantin’s cup and, after checking that he still has not returned, spits in his drink, grabbing a handful of french fries for good measure and dropping them on her plate in a small victory. 

When Konstantin returns, Villanelle expects anger. She expects frustration, a bitter, hard edge to his words. Instead, when he speaks again, it is soft. So soft she has to lean in to hear him properly. 

“Villanelle,” he says. “Please, listen to me. Don’t go asking these questions.” 

“Why?” she asks in a whisper.

“Because,” he sighs. “They do not concern you. Things are happening above your head, above my head, but it’s not our business to know. It does us no good, knowing. We only need to do our jobs and get paid. You are a smart girl. You are so very smart. So very bright. Please,” he reaches out and lays a warm hand on Villanelle’s. It dwarfs hers, her whole hand fitting neatly into his palm. “Do what is good for you and don’t keep asking these questions. If you do, if the wrong people find out, I won’t be able to protect you.” 

“Protect me?” 

“Yes,” he smiles, warm like a fireplace, like a hearth and Villanelle should feel that warmth but there’s a cold seeping into her chest, a dread. “That is my job, yes? To protect you. To keep you safe. But I can’t do that if you don’t help yourself. So please, I am just asking this. Kill Eve Polastri and stop asking questions. Do this, and I will keep you safe.” 

Konstantin lets go of Villanelle’s hand and leans back to his side of the table, taking a long swig from his drink before settling back into his meal. 

Is this what betrayal feels like? It stings, tastes like salt poured over 10,000 tiny cuts, cuts Villanelle was not even aware of, did not know were there on her hands and face and in her chest. She has never felt this before. You need loyalty to feel betrayal and Villanelle never had any, no allegiance except to herself. But this, with Konstantin, is close. A knife an inch off its mark, held by the person who was meant to take care of her. When did it happen, she wonders. Was it just part of the job? And what if she was asked to do the same? 

Villanelle sighs and turns her gaze back at her food. Generating these emotions is starting to get exhausting, like turning a hand crank on something that is supposed to start up and run all on its own. She can feel the tension in her skull starting to build, telling her that soon she will snap, the pieces of her patience flinging outward like shrapnel.

So Villanelle stops turning, stops working against her brain and submits to the sweet release of nothing. Untethers those connections and sinks into the relief, however temporary, of the void, unburdened by the responsibility of conscience, of regret. Slips out of her human skin and into something more comfortable, more calculating, more tensile. 

“I have something for you,” she says, her tone flat as she reaches into her coat pocket and picks out a small box. She stretches across the table to hand it to Konstantin. He takes the little pink box, watching her as he brings it up to his ear and shakes it once, twice, before sliding the top off and pulling it open. Inside is a keychain, some kind of stuffed monkey that makes a noise when you squeeze it. Konstantin hooks a finger through the keyring and holds it up, lets it dangle between them. It is terrible, objectively. Ridiculous. His mouth quirks into a small smile and he looks at Villanelle, waiting. He does not understand. 

“For your daughter,” she offers, her accent rolling over the vowels, letting them sink in. 

Once a month Villanelle is taken to a man who has an office in Paris. She sits on his couch and he undertakes the arduous task of getting her to stay still and cooperate long enough to assess her, determine if she is still capable of performing her job with minimal disruption. He rewards this behavior, this callousness, this manipulation. He is pleased by it, she can see it on his face, the way the skin pulls tight, the way his smile reaches his eyes, how his head tips just so. 

Konstantin’s face, though, has taken on a sallow look, all pale and full of fear, his eyes wide and sunken in. The face of someone watching the dog he brought home get a taste of blood for the first time and remember it is really a wolf.  _ This is what you wanted, _ Villanelle wants to say.  _ You should be proud.  _

“You think I did not know?” she asks, her eyes tracking to the tight band of colored twine tied around Konstantin’s right wrist, the hand holding the monkey keychain. She smiles at him. It does not reach her eyes. He only gapes at her. She does not have time for this, she has somewhere to be, is possibly already late and that would not do. 

Villanelle stands abruptly and tosses a few bills at Konstantin to cover the tip before striding out of the cafe, the door bell chiming behind her. She loops back to Eve’s now smoldering apartment building, ducks into an alley a few blocks off the chaos still slowly winding down and retrieves a stylish designer wheeling carry-on bag she’d stashed there after making her getaway from the building. Tucked safely inside were the precious few of Eve’s belongings that looked expensive, along with the pieces of clothing Villanelle deemed worthy of saving which, admittedly, were also few. She would return them to Eve but first, she had a purchase to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Eve goes on a date. It does not go well.


	12. Cheated by the opposite of love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Eve

Eve lets her head drop back against the glass of the train window. Just lets gravity take hold and really crack right into it. Maybe she’ll crush her occipital lobe and go blind. Wouldn’t that be nice. A real cherry on top of the cake. Who even puts cherries on cakes? When was the last time she saw a cherry on a cake? Or is it ice cream? Was she mixing her metaphors or...

_ Focus Eve,  _ she tells herself, cracking her head against the glass again and leaning into the pain, using it as a kind of dowsing rod to find the part of her brain that can still form a rational thought. It’s slow going. Her fingertips tap out an unsteady rhythm against the seat next to her timed to the seconds winding down inside her mind, counting down to who-knows-what. Eve wishes they would just fucking get there already, or at least find some sort of consistency, a nice reliable rhythm to sink into rather than this unbearable erratic cadence, equal parts too fast and too slow, throwing her equilibrium into a death spiral like an alligator ripping apart a meal. 

God she was feeling morbid. And with good reason, because on top of the absolute shitpile the day has been, Eve still has a date. 

That’s right: a  _ date.  _

Eve isn’t sure, but she believes her last date was in 2015 with a man who, through no fault of his own, looked entirely too much like her ex-husband, triggering a predator instinct she wasn’t in complete control of. She made him cry. Twice. And then later, when she decided to let him kiss her as a sort of consolation prize, she bit him. Not hard enough to draw blood or anything, but definitely hard enough that he wasn’t into it. God, Bill teased her relentlessly after that. She can only imagine what torment will await her after the end of this date. 

From across the aisle, Eve’s reflection stares back at her in the train window, unflinching. Just staring. Eve stares back which, she guesses, is how reflections are supposed to work. Two mirror images regarding each other across a dimension. 

“What?” Eve shouts at her mirror self, cracking under the scrutiny. She quickly glances around at the mostly empty train car before pulling her phone out of her pocket. If she’s going to be talking to herself she’s at least going to pretend to be on a call and have some hidden headset somewhere. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

In the window, her reflection raises its eyebrows back at her. 

“You know like what,” Eve hisses. “It’s not … it’s not what you think.” 

_ Oh but it is,  _ Eve or, rather, her reflection, thinks.  _ That’s the thing about the truth. It’s always there. Following you like a phantom. _

Eve swallows. She stares, transfixed, as her reflection leans forward, pressing its forehead against the glass of the window, laying its palms flat against the plane. Its eyes, beady and dark, don’t leave Eve’s as its lip curls into a sneer. Its tilts its head back, back further than a head should go without snapping its neck and Eve’s stomach lurches at the unnaturalness of it, the wrongness of it. Then, its head snaps forward like a catapult, smashing into the glass in an explosion of blood and cranium —

Eve jolts awake in her seat, disoriented, twitching with raw, reckless energy. She looks at the window and sees only herself, her movements mirrored back at her in perfect time. When she train doors slide open again, she bolts out and onto the platform. If she has to walk a few extra blocks it’s worth it. 

Unlocking her door, Eve half expects to find Villanelle in the kitchen making dinner - Italian, or maybe French, something with entirely too much butter and cream and some obnoxiously expensive bottle of champagne.  _ I like this place better,  _ she would say as she effortlessly pops off the cork.  _ I did you a favor.  _ Somehow, it’s not a terrible thought. Villanelle would be terrible at cooking though, Eve thinks, always adding too much instead of striking a balance. But Eve would eat it, gladly, because it would make her feel something as she swallows it down. 

Instead, Eve swings the door open and finds the flat is silent and empty. She’s disappointed, somehow, like having a flashback to something that never existed, never happened at all, and yet she inexplicably misses it. The space is almost chasmal, hollow. Stepping into it is like stepping back into a former life, as colorless and lifeless as a corpse. 

Clearly she’s a catch. Who wouldn’t want to date her?

She really should just cancel. Just fire off a text to reschedule. Beg off. 

But who knows where Eve will be in a week, or two weeks from now? She could be dead, at the rate she’s going. Elena still probably wouldn’t let her get out of it, either, would set up a Ouija board at some quirky restaurant and make Eve push around a little planchette, trying to flirt one letter at a time. 

Eve sighs, dropping her bag onto the bare kitchen counter. She needs a shower. Then she needs to figure out what she’s going to wear on this date. Hopefully she left something halfway decent tucked up into the drawers. Hopefully something from this decade. 

Every sound echoes through the flat, every footstep, every creak of the floorboards. Eve is reminded of her divorce, of that first morning after Niko left for good, how gloriously empty it all was, how much space she now had to stretch herself into. She spent the day pacing the apartment, relearning it, testing every corner, every shadow. Now, that ullage seems to collapse in on her, echo after lacunose echo, stone after stone. She almost longs for Villanelle to come, to fill the physical space she’s already taken up in Eve’s head. 

Eve makes her way into the bedroom with the intention of heading straight to the bathroom when something at the foot of the bed catches her attention. She freezes.

It’s … a suitcase? It sits there, silent. Unassuming. A period at the end of a sentence. Eve wonders briefly if Villanelle could fold herself up into a carry-on, if she would unfurl into the room to cut Eve to ribbons. The idea thrills her. She runs her fingers over the hard shell. It’s clearly designer, the kind sophisticated women wheel effortlessly through the airport. Of course Villanelle would have something like this, so perfectly in contrast with Eve, who steps off a plane looking like she’s been reincarnated as a rag. It’s so out of step with how Eve sees herself that she almost wonders, for a moment, if she could even be that person, that woman, or would she tear herself in two just trying.

As if on autopilot, her fingers gravitate to the latch, pulling it open and unfolding the case like a book onto her bed. Eve recognizes some of her clothes packed meticulously inside, her Macbook, a hair dryer, her green scarf. 

And, perched on top, a square piece of paper. A note with looping scrawl that Eve would bet anything, everything, belongs to Villanelle. 

_ Sorry baby _

_ x V _

Eve laughs, a single throaty huff into the cavernous room as she brings the note closer and inhales. It smells of Villanelle, of the very root of her. It hits Eve like a truck on the carriageway, full on, no brakes, leaving her utterly devastated. Her eyes slip closed as she takes another pull, the scent stitching itself into her memory, settling into her throat, coloring everything else like a pair of rose-tinted glasses. She looks back to the suitcase and finds, hidden under the note, a box sitting unopened. Setting the note down, she reaches for the box, taking it in her hands, testing it for a moment before sliding the top off to reveal its contents. 

Inside is a vial of perfume, cursive script embossed into delicate crystal:  _ La Villanelle.  _ Of course, Eve thinks. It looks exceedingly expensive, likely custom. Hers, now. Eve’s. She gently unscrews the top, pulling out the dropper and bringing it close. The scent is sharp. Distinct. Like a knife cutting through satin. Eve wonders how it will blend with her body chemistry, how it will feel to take Villanelle into her, into her very marrow. Will it change her, she wonders. Or has she already changed and all that's left is for her to become. A caterpillar in a cocoon arrested between spaces. A thing suspended. 

She replaces the dropper and screws on the cap, setting it back in its spot to take out the second item in the box: a jet black tube of lipstick. Eve pulls off the top and twists until the pigment peaks out, red as a freshly opened vein. She flips it over to read the name. Forbidden Fruit. Clever, Eve thinks, dropping the lipstick into the box and walking into the bathroom. 

***

The water is scalding. Eve’s sure her back will be ruddy and raw but she can’t bring herself to step out of the spray or admit defeat and turn the temperature down. Maybe if she stays here long enough her skin will melt away and she’ll become a whole new person. Maybe if she stays here even longer the whole world will forget about her, will have turned anew and she can step out into a totally new life, like exiting a revolving door. She presses her forehead into the cold tile, straddling the temperature extreme, trying to feel both but really feeling neither. Her water bill is going to be  _ astronomical.  _

There’s a creak outside the shower. Eve hears it, she swears she hears it. She freezes, a mouse that’s just hear the single wingbeat of an owl. She’s sweating now, in the humidity of the shower, her reflexes dulled by the heat and the steamy haze. She takes an inventory of everything within her reach that can be used as a weapon. Razor - too dull. Sponge - too soft. Shampoo - too empty. Conditioner - half-full. A good weight. Just right. She’s about to reach for the bottle when she hears it again, another creak, like the closing of a parenthesis, the end of an aside happening outside the shower. Eve can sense whatever presence was beyond the curtain is gone, now, and she is definitively alone.

Doing some quick math, Eve figures she has about thirty seconds of hot water left before she’s plunged into an ice bath. Now 27 seconds. 25. Eve weighs which is the more unsavory outcome - running smack into Villanelle while stark naked or a sudden temperature drop and waterfall of cold water. 15 seconds. She huffs, grabs her towel and turns the faucet, cutting the water off and throwing back the curtain. 

At first glance, nothing seems out of place. Eve isn’t sure what she expects but considering subtlety doesn’t seem like it’s in Villanelle’s vocabulary, she’s about to chalk it up to an exhaustion-fueled hallucination. She turns to the sink and …

Her heart stops. A full stop, like a bird that’s been squeezed too tight, hovering between beats. 

On the mirror, in the steam and condensation, someone’s written a message. Not someone as in anyone, an unknown. A very specific, very dangerous someone who crept into the room while Eve was naked in the shower not three feet away. Or perhaps she was there all along, has always been there, in the shadows. 

_ E + V.  _ An oversized heart in between. 

It’s written the way you’d scrawl a love note for someone. This is a love note too, Eve thinks, in its own way. She reaches out to trace it, tries to find the residual heat of Villanelle’s fingertips. She finds her breath again, in Villanelle’s lines, her heart fluttering like it's been shocked back to life. 

_ What is she doing?  _ Eve catches herself at the edge, pulling back before she can teeter over. Fingertips become a whole palm and she smears the heart, their initials, everything until there’s nothing left on the mirror, the whole room revealed with startling clarity, nowhere to hide. 

There’s a shape behind her. It’s vaguely human and Eve almost screams, just catches the tearing sound in her throat before she realizes what it is: a dress, hanging from her door. A fucking  _ dress.  _

Eve turns, lets her eyes rake over the form, the fabric. It’s blue, the deep blue of an undertow lurking at the bottom of a river. She can tell by the cut it will cling to her like sin, like sharp, heady lust. Like all the things in life you’re supposed to stay away from. Eve was never good at staying away from those things, always found herself running headlong toward them. Even now she’s crashing into them again and again and only coming back for more. 

Eve is standing naked in her bathroom with only the things Villanelle has left her. The perfume. The lipstick. The dress. How would it feel, she wonders, to don Villanelle? Like a sheep in wolf’s clothing, striding into the world with other people. Would she be able to hear their heartbeats, then? Smell their fear? How would it feel, to be remade as Villanelle would make her? No longer a thing to be hunted but a thing to be feared. A predator, all smooth lines and surly attitude. 

Eve dresses with her back to the mirror, pulls the dress on like a new skin, tugging the zipper up. For a flash she imagines she can feel a second set of hands, strong yet impossibly soft fingers helping her own, dragging against her back. She shivers in the heat of the bathroom, steels herself before turning around, convinced that she’ll find a monster in the mirror looking back at her. That somehow she's been turned into some twisted terrible thing. 

Instead, Eve finds not a monster, but herself. She regards her reflection for a long moment, the way her shoulders have naturally fallen back, how her neck is at once long and regal, her chin higher, her back arched ever so slightly to push out her chest. Her hair is wild in the humidity, a hint of something feral, something untamed just below the surface. 

No, instead of a monster, Eve sees herself, fully. Not concealed beneath bulky coats and shapeless trousers. Not hidden behind thick textbooks or a computer monitor. Just herself, for the first time in a very long time. There she is. Eve has missed her. 

She steps up to the sink and grabs the lipstick, leans toward the mirror to watch it glide over her lips. It’s been ages since she’s worn something so indulgent and the red cuts against the pink skin like a gash — 

There’s a sharp pain then warmth, liquid and metallic. Blood. 

The lipstick clatters against the sink as Eve brings her hand to her mouth and comes away with a perfect scarlet smudge. She wipes it away only to watch it fill back in, blooming in the little lines and crevices.

Eve looks in the sink and can just make out the edge of a razor blade poking out of the tip of the lipstick like a shiv. 

_ That asshole,  _ Eve thinks, running her tongue over the cut, relishing the sting of it. She lets it bleed, free and uninhibited until it overflows, is dripping down her face in long rivulets. Only then does she lift a hand and wipe it away again, leaving a thick stain on her chin. She watches herself in the mirror, commits the image to memory, and smiles. 

This is how Villanelle would have you, she tells herself. Wickedly beautiful with blood on your lips. 

*******

The bar is mercifully tame for a Thursday evening, crowded enough for Eve to feel a sort of herd protection but not so loud that she has to strain to hear her date. 

Amber. That’s her name. Eve repeats it to herself like a mantra throughout the evening so she doesn’t forget. That would be hopelessly rude, but there's only so much space in her brain lately that’s not devoted solely to staying alive. 

Amber is nice. She’s surprisingly funny. And she’s laid back in a way Eve appreciates. She just about had an aneurysm when she saw Eve walking across the bar toward her. It almost made Eve forget about Villanelle. Almost. Except for the fact that she is wearing Villanelle’s dress. And lipstick. And perfume. Should she feel bad, Eve wonders, wearing all this and going on a date with another woman? On second thought, she decides she doesn’t have the capacity to care. 

If Eve were a normal person, Amber would be a perfectly suitable partner. They’d buy a modest two-story brownstone and adopt a dog, some kind of mix breed with “doodle” in the name, probably. Amber would join a recreational sports league and have her own friends so she wouldn’t get annoyed when Eve worked late. Eve would show up with flowers anyway as an apology and they’d have perfectly fine sex each night in their queen-sized bed. 

But Eve isn’t a normal person and Amber doesn’t deserve to be collateral damage in her quest to burn her entire life to the ground. She hasn’t ruled out sleeping with her, though.  _ She is blonde,  _ Eve thinks.  _ I wonder if would let me tie her down and call her Villanelle …  _

Sensing that she’s about to come off the rails entirely, Eve stands and excuses herself from their table. She weaves through the crowd and back toward the bathroom, desperate for a minute, just a lousy 60 seconds alone to collect herself. 

The bathroom door swings shut behind Eve. It’s quiet inside and fairly clean. The pulsing music is muffled here, like the bar is a whole world away instead of just a few feet. She likes the liminality of it.

Eve rests her hands against the counter top and leans over the sink. The blood around her cut has started to stiffen and coagulate. It pulls when she talks so Eve has mostly let herself listen, nodding and laughing in all the right places. It’s not quite performative but it’s just short of genuine in a way that leaves Eve feeling like a fraud of a person. Mostly she feels nothing. Burned out and hollow. She runs her fingertip over the cut one more time, chasing a phantom pain before gathering her hair to tie up. Behind her, a bathroom stall door opens. 

“I keep telling you to wear it down.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If so desired, you can find me on Tumblr (@vaultdweller) where I mostly just reblog things I find funny. 
> 
> Also, I might testing the waters with another little project. Look for it soon!


	13. It's all cute 'till someone dies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this a PT. 2 to last chapter. A mid-season finale if you will. Eve's perspective continues.

Eve’s heart stutter-stops in her throat because there's Villanelle, emerging from the shadows, stepping into the harsh fluorescents and _ Jesus, _how is this even allowed, for someone to look this good in universally awful bathroom light. 

Then there are fingers in Eve’s hair, teasing through the wild tangle of curls, tugging them lightly until they’ve unfurled back onto her shoulders like a waterfall. _ Be free, _those fingers say. The touch is soft. When Eve imagined it she always imagined a rough pull, each root taut in stinging protest, holding her still so Villanelle could slash her throat. These touches, though, are impossibly soft, softer than a woman like Villanelle should be. Eve wonders, for a moment, what other softness lingers dormant and if she would live to see it. 

“What, do you just lurk in bathroom stalls now?” Eve answers, her recovery time between the shock of seeing Villanelle and being able to form coherent thoughts markedly improved. “How long were you in there, anyways?” 

Villanelle shrugs, her fingertips lingering on Eve’s shoulders. Eve feels each one, heavy and searing. 

“I have a thing about bathrooms.” 

Eve doesn’t turn to face her, can’t bear the thought of staring at her directly, being stared at directly. Instead, they regard each other in the bathroom mirror, some alternate dimension version of themselves staring back. On one side Eve, a numbingly bored, soon-to-be disgraced MI6 agent, and Villanelle, a down-on-her luck assassin. On the other, two women sharing a moment in a bar restroom. Eve wishes desperately to reach across the sink and touch her fingers to the glass, grab this other Eve by the wrist and pull her through, it'sswitch places so she could live there, in that other world, in that suspended space where there is nothing, no kill order, no betrayals. Only her and Villanelle in a bathroom for an ephemeral moment that lasts forever. 

Villanelle is watching her in the mirror, her face bright and clear like a mountain valley after the morning fog burns off. Her eyes glimmer, catching each flicker, each flaw in the jarring overhead light and Eve wonders if she leans in, looks far enough, deep enough down, if she would find Villanelle’s heart, a raw, pumping thing, throbbing and alive, or would she tumble into the vacuous abyss and find nothing at all. Eve isn’t sure which would be worse - a Villanelle who is human, like her, or Villanelle, the calculated, methodical monster. 

Villanelle breaks their incorporeal hold on each other first, turning her head to eye Eve the way a hawk trains in on fast, fluttering movement. From the safety of the mirror she watches Villanelle’s eyes slide down. Eve feels them on her body, physically, like nails scratching across her skin and she wouldn’t be surprised to later find long red scrapes and crescent moon cuts. Villanelle licks her lips. Eve swallows. 

“Are you,” Villanelle starts, her accent thick. “Are you on a date, Eve? Really?” 

Eve finds the courage, then, to push herself off the sink and face Villanelle. 

“Are you jealous?” she bites back. 

Villanelle’s head quirks at that and Eve knows she’s never been jealous in her life, doesn’t understand the feeling that lives between wanting and having. Villanelle has or Villanelle takes. She doesn’t _ want. _

“Uh, no,” Villanelle answers. “I am just … impressed? That you are finding time for yourself, in between all those hours at work and trying not to be killed by me. Not many people can achieve that work-life-death balance.” 

“You’re an asshole,” Eve replies. Villanelle’s lower lip juts out in some facsimile of a pout. 

“Don’t be mad,” she drawls. “You did not like that place anyway. It was too small and was smelling too much like cigarettes from your neighbor.” Villanelle’s nose wrinkles at the memory.

Eve realizes three minutes too late how _ close _ they are. She can feel the heat rolling off the other woman, almost expects to feel the jab of hard edges where they’re nearly pressed together. _ Is that a knife in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? _ Eve takes a step back. Villanelle matches her, now somehow even closer. Every molecule, every electron in the room is buzzing with the energy between them. 

“You deserve better,” Villanelle says, thoughtful. “I am thinking … a sunny top floor flat in Rome, overlooking the ruins of a dead civilization. Death fascinates you, I think.” 

“Aren’t you poetic.” 

“Maybe I just know you.” 

Eve’s back is against the wall now and Villanelle practically on top of her, like two magnets tuned to the south pole, trying to see how far down they can go, how far down they can push each other through the sheer force that exists between them, repelling yet somehow connecting.

“You don’t know the first thing about me.” 

Villanelle’s head quirks again, trying to find some hole in the walls surrounding Eve, some new angle of approach. 

“Maybe I would like to.” 

Eve feels the words rather than hears them, feels them curdle in her stomach. Feels them burn even lower. Feels them wrap around her throat. She hates all of it. 

“You’re really an asshole.” 

“See? You know all this about me, yet I know almost nothing about you.” Eve tries to push past her, tries to find some space jammed between the sink and the hand dryer but Villanelle must sense what she’s doing because she’s there, faster than Eve can even blink, cutting off her escape route. She’s solid and resplendent, a predator fulfilling its purpose. 

“Eve,” she coos. “I said don’t be mad. Did I not save your clothes? The ones that were worth saving, at least.” She leans closer into Eve, any space and any pretense between them gone. They’re sharing atoms now, sharing breath. Sharing in their purpose, predator and prey, each essential to the other. 

“Did I not save your little spy gadgets?” Eve can smell her now, not perfume but the layer of perspiration that’s given Villanelle’s forehead a sheen, proof their proximity is affecting the other woman as well. She can see the overhead lights reflected in Villanelle’s canines, on display in her full, predacious grin. 

“Did I not buy you this dress?” Villanelle’s pupils are blown and black, like another galaxy, another universe is waiting inside her. Or a black hole ready to swallow her whole. 

“This lipstick?” She feels the whisper of Villanelle’s lips against her own and Eve wonders if she found some way to electrify them from the shock, sweet and static. She feels herself leaning forward, leaning into, while desperately grasping for something to hold _onto_, to anchor herself against but there’s nothing, there’s just _ nothing _. 

“This …” Villanelle ducks her head and for a moment, Eve expects to be gloriously devoured. Instead, Villanelle skirts Eve’s mouth, zeroing in on the space behind her ear, breath ghosting along her neck as she _ inhales _ Eve, lets her lungs fill with her. Eve’s eyes clamp shut. She bites down hard on her lip to cut off any noise, any hint of sound threatening to escape. Her mouth fills with the blooming taste of blood. 

When Villanelle pulls back, Eve senses the air has turned. Villanelle gazes at her still, but it’s different. Open. Enthralled. 

“You are wearing it,” she says, softly. Reverent. Her eyes track to the cut on Eve’s lips, the little rivers of blood. Some part of Eve distantly thinks she should wipe it away for what’s coming next, would for anyone else. 

_ This is how Villanelle would have you. _

Eve can sense the distance between them rapidly shrinking. The air vibrates with it, the unspent energy, kinetic and coiling. They’ll crash into whatever inevitability they’ve been hurtling toward, a solid wall at full speed. 

The bathroom door opens. 

In bounds a dark haired woman, twenty-something and champagne drunk, positively bubbly. She watches them for a long moment - their position, their palpable heat - before giving them a smirk and turning to the mirror to smooth out her hair. 

“Don’t mind me.” 

Villanelle _ growls. _She’s reaching for something in her Army green jacket and Eve takes advantage of this momentary balance shift to push past Villanelle, past this woman she certainly doesn’t envy right now, and out the door. Away from whatever is about to happen in there. Plausible deniability. 

_ There’s a bar out here, _ Eve thinks to herself as she wanders back to the table, disoriented. _ There’s other people. _The world hadn’t just shrunk down to her and Villanelle pressed against each other, at each other’s lips. 

_ Throats. _ Eve stops and corrects herself. _ At each other’s throats. _

Amber is still waiting at the table, somehow. Somehow it’s still the same day. Eve feels like she’s been gone a week, maybe a whole lifetime. 

“Long line at the bathroom?” Amber asks as Eve sits back down. 

“You have no idea,” Eve mumbles, taking a long draw from her now slightly warmer drink. “Did you say you have a dog?”

Amber’s eyes light up as she launches headfirst into a story about how her rat terrier saved her life once by throwing up, sick on the fumes from her neighbor downstairs dousing his apartment in gasoline, ready to light himself and the rest of the building up. If she hadn’t been paying attention … 

She likes how Amber talks, a thick Scouse most around London would find hard to follow. There’s something unapologetic about it. How it stands out. Eve can relate. She’d been impressed with how easily Eve kept up with her, fearing the worst after Elena told her Eve was American, kind of. Eve laughed it off. She didn’t tell Amber about how her job required her to listen to conversations happening all over the world, in languages she’d never studied, and be able to keep up, be able to parse out what was friendly banter and what was a threat, what was intent. The words didn’t matter so much - Eve listened for tone. Tone was universal. 

Eve's not listening to Amber, but she can tell by the inflection in her voice she's joyfully rambling and Eve lets her, nodding as her eyes sweep around the bar. The space isn't small by any means but it's not infinite. There are only so many places to go and Villanelle wouldn’t just leave, not after _ that. _

Eve’s gaze lands on a flash of blonde at a table behind Amber, right in her line of sight, looming over her shoulder. Sensing she’s being watched, Villanelle turns and smiles at Eve, tilting her head toward Amber and raising her eyebrows. Eve’s fingers clench around her glass. She brings it to her lips to take a sip and, across the bar, Villanelle raises her own drink, a fucking champagne flute, in unison. A toast. 

“Shit,” Eve mutters. Who even drinks champagne in a bar? 

Villanelle, of course. 

“Something wrong?” Amber’s stopped now and is looking at her, concerned. _ What am I supposed to say _ , Eve thinks. _T_ _ hat I’m currently being hunted by an international assassin and oh, by the way, she’s sitting across the bar behind you? _

On second thought … 

“Let’s play a game,” Eve answers, reaching across the table to grasp Amber’s hand, hoping she’s just off-balance enough to go with it. “I’m a wanted intelligence officer with MI6 who is currently being hunted by an assassin sent by a shadow criminal organization. That assassin just sat down across the bar. In order for us to both to live,” she squeezes Amber’s hand in an attempt to drive home this next point. “I need to keep my eyes on her at all times, until I’m sure we’re safe. Do you want to play?” 

It’s not really a question. Amber is playing by virtue of sitting across from Eve, by virtue of even knowing her. She didn’t ask for it, had only asked to be set up on a blind date by her friend Elena who, presumably, kept talking up her work friend Eve. Eve is great, Elena, again presumably, said. She’s wild, but in an unexpected way. Amber had no choice, but if it all works out, Eve will be playing her hand for her. 

Amber watches her for a moment, curious, then turns, follows Eve’s eyes to Villanelle, who is pointedly not watching them. She looks back at Eve and smiles. 

“This is exciting,” she says, leaning across the table, her voice low. “I’ve never done anything like this before.” Eve’s fingers instinctively tighten around the ghost of a knife and for an impalpable flash she smells blood, feels it drying on her fingers. Then, it’s gone.

“I hope it carries on into,” Amber pauses for emphasis. “The bedroom.” 

Eve almost laughs, but just catches herself from being impossibly rude because, honestly, it’s not a terrible idea. 

“If you play your cards right,” Eve replies, finishing her drink. 

An hour later, three drink-Eve is telling Amber exactly how long it would take to bleed out if she was stabbed in the femoral artery (too fast to even call for help) and Amber is, surprisingly into it. Usually when Eve devolves into the criminology major version of herself people run for the hills, or Bill puts on Disney karaoke to get her to stop talking, but Amber is right there with her, finding delight in the macabre of it all. 

“So I’d be like, dead before I even hit the pavement?” Amber asks around her fourth glass of wine. 

“You wouldn’t even know what happened,” Eve answers. “You’d just stumble and lose consciousness on the way down. It wouldn’t take much either, two inches in the right place, give or take.” 

“Shit,” Amber says, draining her glass before checking her watch. It’s getting late and Eve feels like she’s lived five lives today already. At some point, probably bored of watching Eve pay attention to someone who isn’t her, Villanelle slipped out, likely chalking today up as a loss. That’s probably for the best, Eve thinks, finishing her own drink and rising to cash out the tab. Assassins probably don't get paid for overtime. 

Eve's signing the credit card receipt when she feels it again, how the currents around her are suddenly disrupted. 

“You were going to leave without saying goodbye? That is very rude, Eve.” 

“Have you ever approached anybody from the front in your life?” Eve asks, turning to face Villanelle, who is watching her, bemused. “Instead of sneaking up behind people?” 

“If I am approaching someone from the front, as you say,” Villanelle starts. “It is because I am about to kill them. Or fuck them. Maybe both." 

“Well I feel a lot better now,” Eve retorts, shoving her card and her phone in her purse before turning to walk out of the bar. Was she forgetting something?

_ Shit. _

“Are you ready to go?” 

Oh, Amber. Amber, who just popped up next to her, twining her arm with Eve’s. Who’s looking at Eve, eyes laden with _ expectations _. Eve is suddenly powerless to stop this car crash in slow motion. 

“Eve,” Villanelle chirps, eyeing Amber the way a hawk eyes a baby chipmunk, raptorial. “Are you going to introduce me to your … friend?” 

Eve should grab her friend, pull her back to safety, use herself as a shield. Better, she shouldn’t have come at all. She should have stayed in her shitty no-lease apartment and let Villanelle burn her to death with her equally shitty clothes. Eve’s lit her whole life up in flames, why not let Villanelle finish the job? 

Amber’s eyes flit between the two of them, watching whatever tension lingers in the air the way a cat watches the sun’s reflection playing off glass. She comes to a revelation, then, her grip on Eve’s arm tightening into a vice. 

“Oh!” she exclaims. “I know!” She turns, first to Eve, then to Villanelle again. “You’re the assassin!” 

Villanelle’s expression is absolutely inscrutable. Eve wants to die. Wants to be swallowed into some pit where she can rot, slowly and painfully, for hundreds of years. It would be better than this. So much better. 

Unless. 

Eve’s brain — not three-drink Eve, or criminology major-Eve, but MI6 Eve — turns over into overdrive. Because if Amber has seen Villanelle, know on some level, even in the context of this fantasy, that she _ could be _ an assassin, and Eve turns up dead later, she’ll be able to go to the police. She’ll have Villanelle made. Eve’s pretty sure she even used Villanelle’s name at some point, and even if it’s really just a codename it’s _ something. _Villanelle’s not even wearing a disguise, just some jacket with a hooded sweatshirt on under it. It’s too easy. 

And Villanelle, the consummate professional she is, knows that. Knows there’s no way she can make a feasible go at Eve now, and probably for the next few days, at least. Plenty of time for Eve to take leave from work and run … somewhere. Maybe Rome. Villanelle hadn’t been wrong in that regard. If Eve can push this game just a little further, she’ll have a head start on Villanelle, and quite possibly, on a new life. 

Eve is a genius. 

“Well, Villanelle,” Eve says, nodding. Villanelle, in turn, looks like she’s about to flay Eve alive. “Are you the assassin?” 

“Yes,” Villanelle answers slowly, neutral. “I am the assassin.” 

“Oooh!” Amber is practically thrumming now. “I can’t wait!” 

Villanelle smiles, a strained, tight thing, like a mask that’s too small. 

“Well, I have to go get ready, then,” Villanelle says, barely masking her fury. “I will see you both tonight.” 

She turns and scuttles out of the bar, the door clanging closed behind her as she skulks into the night. Eve almost does a fist pump, until she realizes she’s still being tethered to Earth by Amber, who is now looking at her eagerly. 

Oh, right. 

“Amber, hey,” Eve says, laying a hand on the other woman’s arm. “I left my coat back at the table. Why don’t you head outside and order us an Uber to your place and I’ll meet you out there?” 

Amber nods quickly, then reaches up to kiss Eve’s cheek as she rushes out the door. Eve pauses, watching her leave. It certainly wasn’t Villanelle but it was … pleasant? Eve heads back to the table to grab her jacket and sling it on. Maybe she could start running tomorrow … 

The door swings shut behind Eve as she glances sidelong down the sidewalk both ways to find Amber. It’s cold, the wet London air holding the chill against her. She watches the people around her, watches their breath in the streetlamps, measured reminders of their aliveness. She can just make out Amber’s coat about a dozen yards away, the distinctive teal standing out against the sea of black puffers. Amber turns, catches sight of her. Eve smiles back and starts walking, the wind catching her hair, her own breath condensing in front of her. 

She’s jarred, then, by a heavy shoulder as someone passes, nearly bowling her over. Eve turns to curse them out but when she looks back, there’s no one. The street, once lively and full, now seems near deserted. A chill pricks at Eve’s neck, not from the cold air. She wishes she had her gun with her, or a knife. Something that could shed blood against whatever was about to come out from the night. 

She looks back at Amber, whose eyes are now full of fear. Full, paralyzing fear. The fear of a child left all alone with nowhere to hide when the lights go out. Eve’s feet freeze beneath her, something primal keeping her rooted to the sidewalk. 

Amber takes a step toward her, arms outstretched, then stumbles, hard, onto one knee. Eve jolts, then, rushing over, but she’s already fully collapsed by the time Eve drops down onto the pavement at full tilt, skinning her knees. 

“What is it Amber?” Eve asks, frantic, her voice out of tune with itself, too high, too hysteric. “Where is it?” She’s running her hands, first over Amber’s face, then along her limbs. The other woman is drawn, her skin cold and pale, but the fear is still there. Finding blood in the dark is exceptionally difficult, Eve realizes quickly. _ Why couldn’t she have collapsed under a streetlamp? _

Tracing over Amber’s thigh, Eve’s fingers come away wet. There’s a monstrous pool of blood soaking through her pant leg, spilling onto the sidewalk but Eve knows much of the bleeding, what kills, will be internal. 

“I’m sorry, Amber,” Eve mutters as her fingers follow the rush of blood up her leg, searching for a tiny tear in the fabric. How long had it been? Eve hadn’t been counting, which meant too long. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” 

This was supposed to be between her and Villanelle. Their dance to follow into oblivion as they tear each other apart. Other people — Amber, Elena, god knows who else — were off limits. Left out of it. Irrelevant. If Eve wanted to annihilate herself and her own life, that was her business. But Amber, Amber was just on a date. And if she was fair game, who else was? 

Eve finds the tear right where she should have expected it, two inches, right at the femoral sheath. She presses her palm against it, works to try and bend Amber’s knee to get the wound above her heart. The pulse against Eve’s hand is weak. Too weak. An echo. An hour ago they were laughing together at the bar. Eve wishes she’d listened better to the stories about her dog. 

Desperate, Eve reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out her green scarf, tying it around Amber’s leg in some terrible approximation of a tourniquet. She doesn’t have all the tools she needs, doesn’t have anything to tighten it with. She’s screaming now, she’s sure of it, can feel her throat raw and burning but no one comes. Amber’s eyes flicker like the overhead light in the bar bathroom. Eve places a bloody hand on her cheek. Her skin is so cold. So cold and Eve was wrong, that it would all be over before Amber even knew. 

Because she knows. She knows. She knows. She _ knew _.


	14. If I loved you less

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you about breathy woman singing about murder and my cat, Hemingway, who is also my editor.

Villanelle wraps the night around her shoulders, slipping into the velvet shadows like a second home, or perhaps her first. A creature not meant for the day-by-day drudgery of the surface, instead prowling the clandestine underground. The subterranean, all sleek, focused savagery. 

Safely down an alley and out of CCTV view, she lets the sweatshirt hood fall away and takes advantage of the momentary darkness to fold the switchblade back up and tuck it into an inside pocket in her jacket. Most killers would ditch the knife, toss it down a storm drain or into the garbage but Villanelle knows this is a rookie mistake, the mistake of a rash and impulsive kill. Getting rid of the knife opens the possibility of someone finding it and tracing it back to her, creates a loose end. It was one of the first things the handlers taught her about the clinical act of killing — create no evidence and, if you must create evidence, keep it as close to you as possible. To find the knife, police would need to find her and that, Villanelle knows, is impossible. 

Besides, she likes this knife, likes the way the mother-of-pearl handle has smoothed and conformed to the curve of her hand, like it was made just for her. The slide of a key into a lock, or the comforting weight of an instrument while playing a tired but familiar piece of music. It carries with it the memory of her kills, the same as Villanelle herself, an extension of those charged moments, the freedom and lust. 

Villanelle closes her eyes and inhales deeply. She is … unsettled. Turbulent, churning energy rolls off her in waves, the heat of it catalyzing with the cold air. She is at once too hot and too cold. Everything has become too much, diametrically opposed and painful, an aperture pulled too wide, letting too much in. The streetlights are blindingly bright, the shadows impenetrably dark. Her boots clop and clatter against the pavement, over broken glass and the echo, the cracking, is too sharp against her ears, too harsh and grating. She feels sick, a bubbling nausea teasing the back of her throat. She swallows it down, her lips curling in disgust at the sour taste. For a moment she thinks of leaning against a wall, of collecting herself, regaining some control of her limbs, of her senses, but she thinks better of it. A seemingly drunk woman on a dark, cold London night will attract attention and that is precisely what she is hoping to avoid. 

Killing the woman was necessary yet wholly unsatisfying, an efficient yet dirty act, like a quickie in a bathroom stall, even if Villanelle does have a thing for bathrooms. The act of killing, the art of it, is meant to be drawn out, enjoyed. It is, at its root, at once an exploration and a test of human nature’s most base desire — the will to live. A will most never think about, never tap into until it is too late, until a blade is at their throat, until they are running out of air.  _ Oh,  _ they must think in the throes of their own finale,  _ I was supposed to be alive this whole time. This is how it was all supposed to feel.  _ Villanelle lives to bring people to that brink, to take them there, let them feel the rapture in being suspended over the cliff, in believing they can fly, before dropping them onto the rocks below, fulfilling their purpose. They are lucky to be brought to their rhapsodic ends by her skillful hands, to live on, eternally, in her memory, her exquisite collection. It is the rush, the liquid igneous flood of sensation that pushes Villanelle, keeps her going, keeps her seeking and chasing and killing for just a taste of it. The resounding euphoric sensation of having every nerve, every synapse come alive.  _ Wide awake.  _

This, though, was going from stone sober to hungover, like tipping back an entire bottle of vodka and missing all the enjoyable parts, the warn bubbling of being drunk, instead putting your head directly in the toilet and flushing. She did not even get to see any blood, see the fear in the woman’s eyes as she realizes the inevitable, as her soul retreated in. 

Villanelle stumbles a step, then recovers. A man on the sidewalk turns toward her and looks like he is about to offer an arm, ask if she is okay, if she needs an escort. She glares at him and spits, catching him in the face, and continues into the night. He is shouting behind her, yelling something obscene but she cannot hear him over the pulsing sound of her own heart in her ears, the wet rush in and out. 

Villanelle’s mind churns in the haze. Eve will pay for this, she thinks. Pay for this cheap high, this designer drug cut with baking soda shot into her veins. Blue lights rush past. Distantly, Villanelle can hear an ambulance wailing into the night. It is no use, Villanelle thinks. The woman is dead. There is no saving her. There never was, not once Villanelle’s knife plunged with razor certainty into her upper groin, neatly snipping apart her femoral artery and vein like the threads of fate. 

She thinks of Eve trying to save her date, the futility of it Of the blood spurting from the aortic cut, pulsing with each heartbeat, progressively weaker, a true measurement of the life draining out onto the sidewalk. A whole body’s worth of blood spilling from a two-inch cut. The pressure behind it, like a hysterical crowd trying to push out a single door

Eve is probably covered in it, Villanelle thinks. On her hands. In her hair. 

Villanelle licks her lips. 

She is somewhere near her motel, she thinks. Some piece of her brain must still be working, some primal part unaffected by this sloshing spiral of unfulfilled potential. What time is it, she wonders, adrift in the lazy river rhythm of the night, showing no difference, no sense of time moving forward or backward. Eve will pay, Villanelle thinks, for this miscarriage of murder, but just how she has not yet decided. 

Villanelle is about to stagger back to her room when she hears it, a sound so familiar to her she might as well have heard it in the womb, through the walls of her jail cell before she was made anew. It is low and slightly slurred but there is no mistaking Konstantin’s voice carrying through the chilled air. As if called by the pied piper, Villanelle’s senses return to her, sharp and ready, the fog clearing. She presses her back against the motel room door, then lowers her shoulder to flatten her ear against it. 

She can hear Konstantin pacing in her room, no doubt treading all over her clothes.  _ What is he doing here?  _ Villanelle wonders. It feels wrong, like peeking behind a curtain or watching something being made. Villanelle works in the now, not the before, but too often as of late she is being made to take a look inside, at the gears and bloody guts, and too often she is not liking what she sees. 

Konstantin is speaking to someone, his voice muffled by the door but if Villanelle quiets her mind she can just make out pieces of the one-sided conversation. He is speaking Russian. Villanelle flinches, her ears nearly recoiling on instinct, flinching from her neglected native tongue. Her lip curls. But, given everything she knows now, or has been told  _ by Eve _ about the danger her own life is in, she presses closer to the door, deciding that submitting herself to a few tortured minutes of listening to Russian is certainly worth her life. 

_ “You are lucky we are even considering you,”  _ Konstantin says into the phone, his voice harsh and impatient.  _ “After last time and the mess you caused.”  _

Someone from the Twelve, then, Villanelle thinks, someone in just as much trouble as her. Does Konstantin have others he handles? He listens for a long moment to the person on the other end, then interjects. 

“ _ I don’t care. She is human, not some demon. She can be killed, and she will be.”  _ Another assassin, then, Villanelle thinks.  _ “You owe us your life, Paradelle. It would do you good to remember that.”  _

Paradelle? A codename? Not as clever as Villanelle, of course, but curious. 

_ “If you do this right, you won’t even need to see her. Remember, she is not your target. She will be dealt with later. Your focus is Eve Polastri.”  _

Villanelle’s ears perk up, the pieces suddenly and violently slotting into place. The knife sits heavy in her pocket. It burns and burns and burns and Villanelle could throw open the door and have the blade buried in Konstantin’s throat before he could even think about fighting back, would even know what was happening. It would be over, then, in some near mythic, metaphorical struggle in this hotel room in the seedy side of London, the servant slaying the master. Villanelle’s fingers twitch. She is cold, now, numbingly so, but the cut on her palm flares to life. It stings as she thinks of how Konstantin’s blood would spill from his veins like warm wine, how he would look at her. Would he be proud, at what she has become? At what he forged her into? Or would he die with betrayal on his lips, uncaring of the irony? It is tempting, so tempting to take what she is owed. She had been robbed, before, of time, of splendor, but here, in her hotel room, she could linger, unfold. How would Konstantin look, splayed out before her, butterflied and cut open. Would she be able to find the part, then, that turned on her? The part that could not love her? Could she cut it from him and possess it?

A muffled thud from inside the hotel room snaps her back, the sound, she believes, of a suitcase falling off the bed, flipped over by Konstantin as he rifles through her things. Looking for clues, she thinks, to lead this other assassin to Eve. A hastily written address, or maybe a love note, some explanation, some direction to the end of this maze they have trapped themselves in … 

Villanelle’s breath catches.  _ Her phone.  _

She sees herself, suddenly, returning back triumphant, having slipped into Eve’s flat, having laid in wait, undiscovered. She switches her phone off and tosses it in the bedside drawer to keep her from being tracked later, at the bar. Villanelle watches herself and wants to scream, wants to pound on the mirror separating her and her memory. 

_ Eve,  _ Villanelle thinks.  _ What are you doing to me?  _

There is no going back now, Villanelle thinks. There never was, there never is, but some part, some small desperate seed still rooted hoped they could fit back together, as broken and bent as they are. That piece crumbles, now, under the weight of being forced. She thinks of the cliff, of her and Konstantin entangled forever on the precipice, the unknown below and before them. There are great cracks in the ground, now, and her footing is starting to give. 

Might as well jump, now, Villanelle thinks. Bring the whole thing down on their heads. She slides the keycard in the door and steps in. 

“Why are you always in my room?” Villanelle asks, miffed but feigning nonchalance. Konstantin, for his part, does not jump. He has a paper cup of whatever god awful coffee the machine in the corner of the room has pissed out. 

“Excuse me,” he says between sips. “I pay for this room. That makes it mine. I come and go as I please. Unless,” he leans forward, wiggling his eyebrows. “Unless you are keeping secrets.” 

“No secrets here, Konstantin,” Villanelle replies, stripping off her jacket and shrugging the sweatshirt over her head. She watches him, fingering the top button of her shirt. “But a lady needs her privacy, you know? I have to protect my -” she pops a button - “modesty.” 

Konstantin barks out a laugh, turning away and tossing his cup in the trash. He raises his hand, his back still turned to Villanelle. 

“Alright, alright,” he says, a smile in his voice. “I am taking the hint. I will go. I was just checking in on you. Making sure you are safe, you know?” 

Villanelle swallows. She calculates how long it would take to use the corner of the bed as a springboard, land on Konstantin’s back and pull him into a sleeper hold, get him under submission. Calculates the amount of tensile strength she would need to cut off blood flow to his brain, how long she would be vulnerable. His jacket is bulky, his neck thick and fat, all adding time. If she is even a fraction off, if she is weak … 

He coughs, perhaps realizing he should not turn his back on a predator. On his design. His hand drops, falls into his jacket pocket and carefully pulls out an object, something triangular and wrapped in cloth. 

“I will leave this here,” he says, placing it on the desk. His fingers linger for a moment, delicately stroking whatever sits obscured, before retreating. “I know you don’t like them, but really, they are easier. Cleaner, too.” 

His voice is low and lost, like a violin playing in the fog. Is he sad? She tries to parse it out, the inscrutable, to dissect it, but the feeling eludes her. Like smoke slipping through her fingers, becoming more intenible the harder she tries to hold it. Villanelle feels heavy. There is something happening here, something profound, but she is not equipped for it. Her mind searches, but cannot encircle it. It is all slipping through, now, the smoke of her old life, up in flames. Like Eve. They are a pair. She feels small, suddenly, no longer the wolfish predator, but a girl. Alone in a world trying to hurt her. Lost in a game where she cannot make the rules, cannot even discern them to break them, just moving round and round on a board, unable to find a way out. 

“I will go now,” Konstantin says, facing her. “Let you get your beauty sleep. I will see you soon.” 

He is out the door before Villanelle can blink. Half dazed, she drops to her knees, among her clothes and makeup strewn about the floor. She runs a hand over them, the soft, cool silk a sharp contrast to the too hot room. They look different, like this. Tossed about. Discarded. Like a thousand skins she has shed, a thousand different people she has been. Where, in this pile, is Villanelle? Or was she lost long ago, too? 

Still on her knees, Villanelle turns to the bedside table. She eases the drawer open and looks in. There sits her phone, seemingly undisturbed. She reaches out to take it. It is still warm. 

She holds the phone in her hand, tests the weight of it. Holds the button to turn it on. And in a rare moment of introspection, Villanelle takes stock of herself. 

She has two hands and her mind, still. A switchblade in her jacket. Garrote wire in her suitcase, along with a vial of chloroform and a larger, ceremonial knife with a curved blade. She has a phone that has been compromised. Her apartment in Paris is out of reach, along with her accounts, her money. She has cash and papers holed up all over Europe but no way to reach them, no way of knowing if they are still there, or if they are being watched. After killing Nadia she has no friends, no acquaintances, not even anyone who owes her a favor. And Konstantin? She thinks of his sad eyes, of his name on the kill order. Of the edge his voice took when he told her to behave, of his vice grip on her arm. No, Villanelle knows, she does not have Konstantin, either. 

She allows herself, for a moment, to think of a previous lifetime, of a Russian prison, a gray, brutalist structure jutting out of the forest. She thinks of the Hole and for a flash, she is there, in the rectangular cement cell, sitting on the floor. They beat her, at the prison - the guards with billy clubs, the other prisoners with fists. She antagonized them until they had no choice but to react, to respond to her. Her face would split open, her eyes swollen, her body mottled in bruises but it was the Hole that broke her. The Hole where she beat, first her fists, then her face bloody against the wall. Screamed herself hoarse. Pressed into a corner, anything to escape the purgatorial suffocating vacuum of being utterly alone. Forgotten. Villanelle understood, even then, one terrible, eclipsing truth about herself: she needs other people. Needs them to feel. Needs to feed off them, a parasite, a fanged vampire drawing their power for herself. To be without them, to be left with only herself, was true, empty, agony. Absolute inconsequence. She has worn many faces since then, been different people, but peel back those layers and she always finds that truth. 

Villanelle looks around the hotel room, larger than the Hole by threefold but still feeling as if it is collapsing in on her, a dying star with nothing left to burn. No one to burn. Only ruins. No one who is hers. 

_ Except. _

Villanelle navigates to her recent calls and presses the send button. Each ring echoes like a scream in the dark. The wait is interminable. 

Ring. 

_ Eve, I need to tell you something. You are in danger. We are in danger.  _

Ring. 

_ Eve, I need to tell you something. I feel things. When I am with you.  _

Ring. 

_ Eve, I need you.  _

Ring. 

_ Eve! _

The call drops without going to voicemail. Villanelle frowns. She checks her watch. Nearly 6 a.m. Where did the night go? Did she really lose all that time? 

She dials again. Again, the call drops. She repeats, dialing over and over and over and over and over.

She is about to end an attempt and dial again when she hears it and only just manages to stop herself. 

“Can’t you take a hint?” 

“Eve,” Villanelle rasps, enraptured. There is a pause, long and cogent, before she speaks again. 

“Eve,” she starts. “I need to tell you something.” 

“No,” Eve interjects, her voice cutting through the connection. “No. You don’t get to tell me anything. I,” she pauses. Villanelle can hear her swallow, can almost see her throat bob. “I am going to tell you something. You are a  _ fucking  _ asshole _ . _ ”

“I just spent the last four hours at the police station,” she continues. “In an interrogation room. While sweaty constables tried to coerce me into confessing to the very public murder of my very public date, only backing off when I told them I work for  _ fucking  _ MI6 and if they had anything further questions they could take them to Carolyn. Which I’m sure will be lovely to hear about tomorrow. Oh! I mean,  _ today _ , because it’s six in the morning and I haven’t slept. Because you decided that this  _ thing  _ we’re doing couldn’t just be between us. You decided to drag Amber into it and then kill her. Leave her to die on some sidewalk outside a  _ fucking  _ hipster bar.” 

Villanelle listens. A coil of anger rises up in her like a viper, shows its fangs. This is, not how she imagined this conversation would go.

“Listen,” Eve says, her voice strained. Like this is the beginning of a breakup, Villanelle thinks. Like she can just divorce herself from Villanelle and this tumbling house of cards. “I don’t, I don’t have time for this. When it was just the two of us, when you were breaking into my apartment and I was stealing your file and we were … doing what we were doing, it was, exciting. Thrilling. I felt, more alive than I’d felt in a long time. Years, maybe.”  _ I feel things,  _ Villanelle thinks.  _ When I am with you.  _ “But this shit? Bringing someone, an innocent person, into this fucked up, whatever we have? It’s too … I can’t. I won’t. I don’t,” Eve pauses. “I don’t want this.” 

Villanelle’s brow creases but she is silent. Is she, is she trying to stop this? Does she not understand? There is no stopping. There are no brakes to be pulled. No doors to open and jump out, no tuck and roll and hope for the best. Is she trying to leave Villanelle here? Alone? 

Something in Villanelle snaps, a gunshot echoing in an ancient ruin. 

“Oh Eve,” she purrs. “You are not giving yourself enough credit. I held the knife, yes, but you, Eve, you are the one who dangled her so deliciously in front of me. You put on my dress. My lipstick.  _ My  _ perfume. To go out, with her? You let her see me. You tell her I am an assassin. And you are, surprised? When I kill her? I cannot leave a witness, Eve. My hand was forced. But yours,” her voice is sharp, now, edged. “You had plenty of choices. Ways out. But you took none of them. Instead, you bring her to me. I am a killer, Eve. What did you think would happen?” 

_ This is what you wanted.  _

“Fuck you,” Eve spits. “You are a fucking  _ psychopath.”  _

Villanelle smiles, feels the venom coursing through her now. 

“Is that so, Eve?” she asks. “Is that why you told the police who killed Amber?” 

Silence. Villanelle is grinning now. She continues, pushing. 

“Why you described me to the police? Why you told them my name, where to find me, who I work for? Is that why the police are coming, now, to break down the door and place me under arrest?” She lets the moment hang. Then — 

“That is what I thought. You did not tell them any of those things. Because you like me too much. Too much for even you to understand. It makes you angry, to like me this much. But I will tell you a secret, Eve.” 

She leans forward, as if Eve is here, in the hotel room with her. 

“The only thing that makes you interesting is me.” 

“Fuck you,” Eve repeats. “You know  _ nothing  _ about me. But I promise you, with everything I’ve done, what I’ve set in motion, you killing me will be just a fucking  _ footnote. _ ” 

The line goes dead. 

Villanelle watches out the window as the first peek of sunlight breaks over the horizon, leaks through the gaps between buildings. A new day. 

Her fingers play with the cloth bundle on the desk, pushing the fabric aside, revealing the silvery steel of a handgun. She traces the barrel once, twice, before looking out the window again. The sky has turned an angry red, the clouds looking like they have been dabbed with a paintbrush. 

_ Oh Eve,  _ Villanelle thinks.  _ I really liked you.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Eve, we're really in it now.


	15. Makes me feel like a madman on the run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bitch to write, mostly because I went bird watching this weekend instead of, well, writing it. Anyways, I'm just going to go put on my clown makeup after that Season 3 teaser.

Eve stares, stone-eyed and dead-faced, into her bathroom mirror. 

Her reflection stares back, its lips pulled into a deranged half grin, a stitch tugged too tight. 

_ There’s something happening here, _ Eve thinks. She remembers reading about an experiment: two people sit in the dark, a candle or cell phone flashlight between them, staring into each other’s eyes. After just a few minutes they start to hallucinate, watch the other person’s face contort into horrible shapes, morph into an animal or an old hag. By the end of the 10 minute experiment they’d both be crying, their minds so starved for input they’d conjured up the most terrible emotional things imaginable. 

She’d been staring at this Eve her whole life, this mirrored version of herself. She’d fed her the lies, let her keep the truths, poured them all into this other Eve, expected her to carry the burden unquestioningly. But their experiment was over. This Eve, with her burning eyes and mimicry smile and birthmarks on the wrong side of her face, this Eve had had enough. Wouldn’t carry the weight of original Eve’s sins anymore. 

The reflection turns and for a moment, Eve marvels at the novelty of seeing her own back in a mirror, the physical fallacy of it. It’s almost absurd, until the reflection starts to walk away. Grows smaller and smaller before disappearing, leaving Eve entirely alone. 

A single tear rolls down her cheek. 

_ You had plenty of choices.  _

“Fuck,” Eve says, collapsing onto her elbows on the bathroom counter, letting her head nearly dangle in the sink. The morning’s first light is beginning to crest over the horizon. It burns red in the tiny bathroom window, like the world outside is on fire. 

_ Isn’t it? _ she thinks, her head lolling against the porcelain. And didn’t Eve strike the match? 

There’s a reckoning to be had here, in her dark bathroom, the blood of a dead woman still flaked on her hands and not even her own reflection to keep her company. A reckoning with the recklessness with which she’d burned through others, a reckoning with what little remorse she felt. And a reckoning with what sent this whole dumpster fire into fruition. The true, inescapable smoldering coal at the bottom of layers upon layers of lies, half truths and exacting what use she could out of people before tossing them aside. 

_ Because the people deserve to know.  _

“Deserve to know what?” Eve half snarls, dragging her head out of the sink to face the now empty mirror. 

_ I copied the report.  _

“The truth?” Eve asks the empty mirror. She brings her hands up, lays her palms against the glass, framing where her face should be. 

_ I reported it anonymously to the whistleblower hotline.  _

“Do you want the truth?” Eve shouts to no one, the words echoing more than should be possible in the somewhat cramped bathroom, as if she were in some vast cavern, her trespasses about to be read aloud. 

_ I copied the report.  _

“I was bored.” 

Eve inhales. Her face is wet. Eve tips her head forward against the mirror, peering into it but seeing only her computer monitor. Seeing only that bullshit report and being  _ fed up.  _ Fed up that for a year she had been made into a fool. An absolute idiot. A keyboard monkey. She’d been chasing  _ terrorists.  _ Tracking them around the globe. Mosul, Abuja, Tripoli, Kiev. She’d been among the best. Could have been the best. Her team infiltrated dozens of groups, intercepted hundreds of communications, saved thousands of lives. And then they just —

“Took it away from me,” she whispers, her breath condensing on the mirror. “They took it away from me. And I was bored. I was so, so, so bored.” 

She remembers the day it happened, can see it playing out before her in the mirror. It was Bill’s birthday. Someone brought in a cake, a monstrosity with a vaguely vulgar design and entirely too much sugar. They’d sung to him in the break room, turned the lights out and let him blow out the candles. Someone pretended to shove his face into the cake. Everyone laughed. 

It was the first interruption, the first true break in the deadening monotony that had settled in since they’d been taken off their overseas assignments. The first bright moment, the first time Eve had laughed in months. And when she made her way back to her desk, still riding that high, only to be met by that report, that anomaly, she lost it. She copied it. And she went to Kenny. 

“But do you know the worst part?” Eve sneers into the mirror, her wet cheeks sliding across the glass. “Do you know the dirty secret of it all?” 

She pulls back, then, squaring up, facing where her reflection should be, now empty oblivion. 

“The worst part is,” she starts, a kind of maniacal glee leaking into her voice, like she’s about to start laughing, the high, shrill mirth of a madwoman. “The worst part is, I ignored reports just like that one for years. Let them slip right by, blend in with all the others. I didn’t care. I was doing what I wanted. They were letting me chase the bad guys, save the world. I was exhilarated. Excited. I was  _ wide awake.  _ They could have put a report in front of me spelling it all out and  _ I wouldn’t have cared.”  _

She continues. 

“It was all there, waiting. Waiting for me. But it wasn’t until they stopped giving me  _ what I wanted _ that I went looking for it. Not for the good of the country. For the people. No. To get back at them.” 

She’s breathing heavy now, like she’s been in a fight. The tears have stopped. She’s waiting. Waiting for … 

“Are you happy?” she asks the mirror. “Are you happy, now that you’ve heard the truth?” 

She blinks. 

When her eyes open, she’s met with her reflection once again. Experimentally, she raises her right hand and watches the movement mirrored back at her. 

From her bedroom, Eve can hear her alarm going off, letting her know it’s time to wake up and go to work. 

***

“Eve!” 

There’s two arms around her, suddenly, and she’s pulled into a bear hug of an embrace. Eve almost recoils from the abrupt reminder of her own physical body and the space she occupies in the world, like it’s all at once too much to have a corporeal form. 

Elena’s taller than her and Eve feels her center of gravity bowing under the additional force. She stumbles, but Elena seems to sense that they’re about to go toppling and pulls Eve forward instead, rights her back on her feet before pulling back to look at her. 

“God, I was so fucking worried. I got the call and I didn’t know what to think I just …” Elena’s arms drop and she gather's Eve's hands in hers. They’re cold, and for a moment Eve flashes back to Amber, how cold she was on the sidewalk, how her pulse slowed under Eve’s fingertips.

“Elena I’m,” she starts. She can’t stop looking at her hands, their hands twined together, can’t stop trying to remember if she washed the blood off before coming in to work, if it’s still lurking under her fingernails. “I’m just so sorry.” 

“She was … she was one of my best mates from school,” Elena says, her voice cracking slightly. “We’d just reconnected after all these years. She deserved …” 

Elena trails off. Her grip on Eve’s hands tightens into a vice.  _ Can she see the blood?  _ Eve wonders, willing herself not to flinch away.  _ Can she feel it, warm and wet, between us? _

“She deserved better,” Elena finishes. “Better than dying outside alone on some sidewalk.” 

Eve murmurs an agreement. Amber certainly deserved better than that. Deserved better than spending her last few hours alive at a bar with Eve only half listening to her stories, half paying attention to her, fixated on Villanelle instead. Guilt rushes through her stomach like water through a pipe, hot and powerful. 

“Did you see anything?” Elena asks. Eve’s heart stops, dread creeping in. “I mean, I know the police have already asked you, I’m sure, but I feel like I need to know, you know? You didn’t see anything?”

Eve looks at her then, into her eyes, tired and bloodshot. Probing. Eve wants to warn her to stop, that she won’t like what she finds. Ignorance is bliss and all that. 

How many people will she have to hurt, Eve wonders, before this is done? How many friendships, relationships, will be razed? How many people dead? Eve feels as if she is at the center of a black hole, as if she is the center of that black hole, shredding and obliterating and pulling it all apart at a molecular level until nothing, not even the memory, exists. 

“No,” Eve answers, stoic. “I didn’t see anything. I was inside getting my coat and by the time I got back out she was on the sidewalk bleeding. I didn’t see anyone else, I was only focused on her.” 

Elena watches her for a moment. There should be guilt here, Eve thinks, but she only feels empty. She tries to make herself feel it, tries to manufacture it, find the hurt, but the knife only slips in and comes out clean. After a beat, Elena nods, trusting. Before Eve can react, she’s being pulled in for another embrace, warm, but less so. Stilted. 

“I’m sorry,” Elena says, partially muffled in the shoulder of Eve’s parka. “It’s just, he’s out there, you know? Just out on the street. We’re supposed to be stopping the bad guys, but I’m trapped in this office while he’s out there.” 

Eve brings up a hand to pat Elena on the back once, twice, before stepping away and out of the hug. 

“Anyways,” Elena continues, wiping at her eyes. “Carolyn was looking for you. She wants you to drop by her office.” 

_ Shit,  _ Eve thinks. Fucking  _ Carolyn.  _

She looks toward Carolyn’s office, the hallway seeming to stretch comically long, like a funhouse mirror or some last walk. The Green Mile. She gulps, then turns back to Elena, who is looking at her like she has no idea what could possibly be waiting for Eve on the other side of that door. As if by some instinct, she knows this will be the last time she sees the inside of the MI6 office, the last time she and Elena will see each other as they are now. She wants to cling to it, desperately, but also to blow it away, like dust. 

Eve isn’t sure if the floor itself is unsteady or if it’s her legs that have become jelly underneath her, but she feels as if she’s wobbling and pitching down the hallway toward Carolyn’s office, like she’s on a boat and hasn’t found her sea legs. Plus she’s running on roughly — Eve goes to check her watch, then quickly remembers she doesn’t have one — a  _ million _ hours, a million lifetimes without sleep. She’d forgotten about that part, but that’s what lack of sleep does to a person. Makes them forget things. 

Things like Kenny, who is already in Carolyn’s office, leaning over her desk and pointing at something over her shoulder on the computer. He’s startled by the door, turns to look at Eve, eyes wide like a deer caught on the carriageway.

“Ah, Eve, there you are,” Carolyn effortlessly cuts through whatever  _ that _ was, spinning around in her very ergonomic office chair. “Kenny was just trying to tell me about something called Tik Tok? But I don’t believe him.” She doesn’t clarify what she doesn’t believe, as Tik Tok is actually a very real thing, but Eve guesses that when you’re Carolyn Martens, not believing in something is enough to make it not real. Eve wishes she had that power, that steadfast belief strong enough to shape the world around her. She just stays quiet, unwilling to question. Kenny just stares. 

Carolyn coughs. She’s looking at Kenny, who suddenly seems mortified at his own existence. 

“You can go now, Kenneth,” Carolyn prompts. That seems to do it, as Kenny realizes he has two legs and hands with which to shut a door. 

And, with the click of a lock, they’re alone. 

Carolyn Martens has a stare that will strip anyone down to their studs, to the very joints and junctures of a person while giving away nothing of herself. When Eve thinks of MI6, of the mythos, the mystery, she thinks not of James Bond, but of Carolyn, the master puppeteer, able to at once gather every string, to work it to her will, but also drop them all, leaving her puppet to twist in the wind. She is ageless, in an institutional kind of way. Long after Eve is gone, after the impact crater she will leave behind burns itself out, Carolyn will emerge from the rubble unscathed, a wily and adaptable as a cockroach. 

“Have a seat, Eve. Please.” She gestures to the chair in front of her. Eve wonders if it will collapse in on her, lock her in like a bear trap. She sits anyway, slipping between Carolyn’s desk and the seat, hyper conscious of every movement. Wondering what her tell is, what flinch, what minute twitch will give everything away. Weighing her options, Eve thinks it best to keep her mouth shut for the duration of this interaction — a startling departure from her strategy up until this point for sure.

“Now, I received a call this morning from a London police detective,” Carolyn says. “Informing me you’d been involved in the stabbing death of a woman outside a bar last night. I assured him that, as an agent for MI6, there was no way you could have possibly been involved beyond being at the wrong place at a rather inopportune time. He was surprised, I think, to find out you actually worked for the service. I think he thought you were making it up.” 

Eve listens carefully, all while realizing there’s no point in trying to predict where this conversation is going to go. She’s lost the reins, lost them the moment she walked in the door. Nothing left to do now but follow the trail. 

“Since you’re sitting here, in front of me, and are not currently in a jail cell, I’m to assume the detective took the right course of action and released you from whatever interrogation they’d been keeping you in.” Eve nods. Carolyn leans forward, toward Eve, her face serious, somehow more serious than it had been before. 

“I want you to know, Eve, that I will do whatever is in my power to protect you in this.” She says it with utter confidence. Eve thinks of Tik Tok, of believing and making it so. She doesn’t even ask  _ if  _ Eve was involved and Eve realizes, then, that she doesn’t care. That’s not the world Carolyn deals in, a world where the innocent are protected and the guilty punished. In Carolyn’s world, there’s no such thing as either. It was the world Eve lived in to, albeit unwittingly, she just doesn’t recognize it in this light. 

“If you continue to have a problem with the detectives, or the woman’s family, I ask that you please come to me directly,” Carolyn continues. Eve feels a cold creeping into her fingertips, up her legs as the realization of what she’s done sets in. Copying reports, scurrying around with Kenny, passing papers to the press, that was all one thing. But sitting here, now, facing Carolyn, the woman who, ultimately, she had been wholesale betraying this entire time, Eve appreciates the magnitude of what she’s done in a truly horrible way. Grasps, for the first time, how utterly outmatched she is, how unprepared for the duel to come. All at once she wants Villanelle there, someone on her side. Someone to hold the knife. 

“But,” Carolyn says, the word hanging in the room, a single, sharp note. A promise. “All things considered, I do think it would be best if you maybe take a step back from your duties.” 

“What?” Eve asks, not quite following. 

“I’m recommending you take some time off,” Carolyn replies. “A leave of absence, if you will.” 

There it is, Eve thinks. The queen sliding into place on the chess board. A checkmate. 

“You have plenty of time saved up,” Carolyn pushes. “And I checked, you haven’t taken any time off in over a year. We all need a break, Eve, especially in this line of work. It takes a certain kind of person, a certain dedication, to do what we do. But you’re no good to me burned out.” 

She sounds almost kind, Eve thinks. The politest ‘get the fuck out’ she’s ever heard. She finds herself nodding because, well, what else is she going to do? She’d been given so many opportunities to jump ship and save herself and let each one pass her by, always waiting for something, some sign or cue. Now, though, the rug has been pulled out from under her. She has no choice, no footing left. 

She has to run. 

Eve stands, abruptly, and turns toward the door. Her fingers are curled over the handle when Carolyn’s voice stops her. 

“Eve,” she says. Eve stills but doesn’t otherwise acknowledge her. “Perhaps it would be best if you went out the back way. Through the garage.” 

The back way. Like some forgotten child. Like a dissident erased from a photograph, all traces of her erased. She steps out into the hallway, letting the door fall shut behind her. She looks to the left, toward the busy office floor, the flurry of typing and low chatter. Taking a breath, she instead turns to the right, toward the back elevator. 

Going down, Eve can’t remember if she’s ever taken this elevator, can’t remember if she even knew it existed. She’d arbitrarily pushed the button of a floor with the letter “P” next to it, a decision she instantly regrets when she steps out into a labyrinth of a parking garage and discovers she's still several stories up from the street. 

_ Where the fuck even am I?  _ Eve wonders as she wanders down row after row of unfamiliar vehicles. Outside, it starts to rain, the low hiss of raindrops thrumming off metal and concrete blending with the din of London traffic, creating an illusion of isolation, like she’s trapped alone behind a curtain. 

She follows another trail of exit signs that should bring her to a set of stairs but instead lead her around hairpin turn after hairpin turn, the maze turning in on itself, trapping her deeper still.  _ I should have gotten back in the elevator _ , she thinks, having followed the path to yet another dead end.  _ Once I realized what a moron I’d been. That’s what a sane person would have done.  _ But instead, like Alice tumbling down into Wonderland, or whatever it was, she’d gone too far to turn back now. Couldn't help herself. 

Taking a moment to steady herself, Eve leans against the driver side of a fairly respectable BMW. Eve gave up owning a car for public transport when she moved to the city but, looking at the slick sedan, she could see the appeal. She absently checks her reflection in the rear mirror, gathering her hair up to pull it back and get it off her neck in the London humidity. 

Behind her, the car's rear window explodes. 

On pure instinct Eve drops to the ground, her knees knocking against the cement and  _ Jesus fuck that hurt,  _ she thinks as she presses herself flat against the ground, half-army crawling, half-mad scrambling behind a concrete pillar. She’s going to feel that tomorrow. No doubt. 

Gasping for breath, she leans against the pillar, adrenaline coursing through her like venom, leaving her feeling light and a little drunk, like she’s not quite in control of her limbs.  _ What the fuck was that? _ she asks herself, turning her head ever so slightly to get a look at the shattered window, the glass scattered across the ground, a thousand tiny diamonds in the light. 

She gets her answer quickly enough when a bullet ricochets off the car’s metal frame with a  _ zwing _ and takes a chunk out of her hiding spot. Eve pulls her face back just in time but she can still feel the sting of the concrete bits flung out like shrapnel, feels a thin , warm trickle run down her cheek that she knows is blood. 

_ Are you fucking kidding me right now?  _ Eve wants to yell at her pursuer, wherever she is. She can almost hear Villanelle’s response, the indignation captured so effortlessly in her Russian accent.  _ Did you really think you could say such mean things to me, Eve?  _ she would say.  _ And that I would just let you? No, you have earned this.  _

Between the downpour and downtown traffic Eve could hardly hear her own footsteps in the garage, never mind pinpoint wherever Villanelle is positioned. Whatever she’s firing, though, has a silencer to dampen the noise. She doubts anyone outside will hear the gunshots and come to her aid. No, this is between the two of them now. A duet, as it always was meant to be. 

Desperately trying to control her own heartbeat, Eve thinks back to her college days, to her criminology classes and how people function under stress. She remembers reading about rabbits and how, when chased by a predator, their instinct is to run only until they are out of a pursuing predator’s sight, opting then to hide instead, hunker down and wait until the predator laves before emerging and returning to their nest. Humans, she learned, run like rabbits, making an initial break for it before changing tack and hiding. It’s why perimeters and grid searches work, why most criminals can be found within a few hundred yards of a scene. 

Villanelle, the honed predator she is, would know this. She would expect Eve to hide, to try and wait her out. She would be looking. And would find. 

Another bullet whizzes by. A crater appears in the garage’s back wall amidst a cloud of dust. Using the rear view mirror of the BMW, Eve tries to take a good look at her surroundings, to try and pin down where exactly Villanelle is firing from. 

She sees nothing. 

Except, in a dark corner far to her left — a sign, illuminated red, pointing to what appears to be stairs. 

If she could just reach those stairs, Eve knows, she could get out of this. Get on a bus and not take one fucking look back. 

But between her and the stairs, between her and a nice quiet new life working in some hole in the wall restaurant in a tiny northern city with a dog where no one will ever shoot at her again, is, of course, Villanelle. Always Villanelle. 

“Think, asshole,” Eve whispers to herself, willing her brain to work. If she can at least make out where Villanelle is, she can chart a path to the stairs. But how? 

Then, it comes to her. 

It’s either stupid, or stupidly brilliant, Eve doesn’t know which. Probably both. But if it works … 

If it works, she’ll win. Win this game they’ve been playing. Win back her life. 

Carefully keeping her limbs behind the pillar of concrete, Eve reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out her cell phone. Navigating to her most recent call, she presses the phone icon, listening as it dials. 

From somewhere off to her right, the blare of bubblegum pop cuts through the shroud of white noise.  _ Bingo.  _

“Hello, Eve.” 

Eve stares at the phone in her hand, suddenly transfixed at the tenuous connection to the other woman, to Villanelle. She watches as the timer counts the seconds as they tick by, unsure. 

“Eve?” 

“Hi,” she finds herself answering, not entirely in control of her voice. She brings the phone up to her ear. “I …. didn’t really expect you to pick up, honestly. I’m not sure what to say.” 

“I find I am often doing the unexpected lately,” Villanelle answers, her voice choppy with the garage’s poor signal. “Especially around you.” 

“That must be difficult.” 

“It is. I find you particularly difficult.” 

Eve almost laughs at that, just catches herself because of course, even the assassin sent to kill her would find her difficult to work with. 

“Killing you should have been - should be - easy. You do not have money for fancy security, or training to fight back. But even now, with you hiding and scared, even now I am finding it hard.” 

There’s a heavy pause. What comes next is barely above a whisper. 

“What have you  _ done  _ to me, Eve?” 

She sounds anguished. Absolutely wrecked. Something in Eve tugs. She recognizes it as whatever it is that has connected them, tethered them together. It strikes a low note in her gut. A feeling passes between them. Longing. 

“To us, you mean,” Eve answers. “What have I done to us?” 

From the rear view mirror beside her, Eve watches Villanelle step out from behind one of the cars, her phone in one hand, a pistol in the other. Her hair is pulled back, her eyes bright and glassy. 

“I did not want to kill that woman, Eve, ” she says. Eve can just see her lips moving in the dull light of the garage, the sound reaching her a second too late, on a delay. It’s disorienting. “I did not enjoy it.” 

“Then why did you?” 

“Because you would not give me what I wanted.” 

“What did you want?” 

“I wanted  _ you.”  _

Villanelle raises the pistol then. She’s looking right at the mirror, right at Eve as she brings it under her chin and grins. 

“No!” 

Eve’s feet carry her from out behind the pillar to face Villanelle. They regard each other, Villanelle with her finger on the pistol trigger, Eve with her hands outstretched, still holding the phone, the call still running, seconds ticking away. 

_ Five. _

_ Six.  _

_ Seven.  _

_ Eight.  _

_ Nine.  _

Villanelle drops the pistol from under her chin, levels it at Eve and fires. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friend Katie, upon hearing that I was on Chapter 15, asked me when they're going to smooch. It occurred to me that people might want to know that. I'll answer cryptically with - soon


	16. What a simple web we weave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *blows a kiss to the moon* For Villanelle!

The cement pillar next to Eve explodes in a cloud of dust and rocks. Eve dances away, somehow managing to hold onto both her phone and her oversized handbag. Villanelle smiles. It reminds her of the old American Westerns she likes, when the swaggering cowboy hero tells the bad guy to dance, then unloads his six-shooter at their feet, taking delight in the outlaw’s attempts to keep all his toes. She has always appreciated a flair for the dramatic. 

Eve, hair wild and half covering her face, stands gaping at Villanelle. Her mouth hangs open and her eyes are wide and dark, like tunnels. She looks, surprised, Villanelle surmises, that she would shoot at her. Or is she surprised Villanelle missed? Either way, Villanelle has surprised Eve. She tallies the victory. 

The surprise does not last, though. Having found some scrap of self preservation hiding somewhere in that tangled mane, Eve turns on a heel, darts behind the pillar and takes off running to Villanelle’s left. Or whatever the less graceful version of running is. Scampering, Villanelle thinks. Scampers to the back corner of the garage, where Villanelle sees a red exit sign illuminating some stairs, her unzipped parka and monstrous handbag flailing in the wind of her own momentum. 

Her hand still smarting from the recoil of the last shot, Villanelle takes aim again, lining up the barrel of the pistol dead center with Eve’s retreating back. She had sacrificed proper form last time — again, flair for the dramatic — and her wrist was paying for it now. This time, she raises her right hand to cradle her left, squares her shoulders, lets out a long breath and pulls the trigger. 

The gun clicks. It is empty. 

Villanelle does laugh then, a short, bright chuckle at the irony. Across the garage, Eve turns the corner and disappears down the stairs, out of Villanelle’s clutches. 

It had been a gamble, Villanelle knows, shooting at Eve. But is it still a gamble if you are not sure which outcome you prefer? When you have, as the Americans say, skin in both games? Konstantin would call it being thoughtful. Organized. He would be pleased at her forethought. She pulls a face, the thought of pleasing Konstantin tastes sour in her mouth now. She spits on a nearby car but it lingers still. 

Pocketing the pistol, Villanelle quickly weaves through the parked cars, making her way to the edge of the garage, where she can still see sheets of raindrops pouring down steady and fast. Her knees wobble underneath her. She hates it, her body’s reaction to killing Eve. And to not killing her. She likes certainties — black and white, dead and alive, win and lose. She cannot abide this in-between space, where she both wins and loses no matter the outcome. Her body rejects it. She is trapped deep inside a fault line, some sort of fissure, with both sides crashing and colliding against each other as she is caught in the middle, pulverized, yet somehow also pulled apart at the stitches. The only redeeming possibility being that maybe, just maybe, Eve is here too. Maybe they can share this Dantean circle, just the two of them. She feels the possibility of it in her chest, heavy and sharp, like swallowing too much water too quickly. She has swallowed too much of Eve too quickly. It is making her do crazy things. 

Hanging over the outside edge of the parking garage, Villanelle spots Eve from three storeys up, the stairwell doors bursting open as her target shoves her way through a crowd of London pedestrians and directly onto a waiting bus. Villanelle makes note of the bus number to look up later, then ducks back inside the garage, wiping away cold raindrops from her forehead. 

Killing Eve in this parking garage would have achieved one objective, yes, Villanelle figures, but flushing her out was the more appealing outcome. And not just because it is what she is stuck with now, Villanelle tells herself. Eve is easy to kill - theoretically - in London, her habits fairly predictable and an abundance of opportunities to strike both in close quarters and from an untraceable distance. Getting her out of London will make it much more difficult for this other assassin to track her. Meaning she, Villanelle, can track and trap Eve herself, with the privacy such an act deserves. They can be … 

_ Alone.  _

Villanelle smiles at the thought, at what she could achieve if given the proper time to carry out her true desires with Eve, to see them through to fruition. A sheen of sweat breaks out across her forehead and along the collar of her beige faux fur jacket. She swallows. The parking garage is expansive and hollow and she swears she can hear her own heartbeat reverberating off the walls, a strong, powerful pulse. 

She has time to kill, Villanelle knows. In close quarters, Eve Polastri is patient, calculated and cunning. Flushed out into the open, though, on the run, she is skittish and impulsive, like a deer bolting into the road. Villanelle is a creature of the hunt, honed to exploit those missteps, those moments of weakness. Eve will make a mistake and reveal herself. She has time. 

She is also tired. It has been a long time since she has slept and Villanelle knows that, however unfair it might be, her senses will dull without proper rest. She needs to be in top condition to pursue Eve, to exact her will upon the other woman. 

For a moment she entertains the thought of returning to her motel room but recoils at the memory of Konstantin, of him rummaging through her things, touching her precious clothing with his grubby hands. It is probably not safe for her there, anyways, with this other assassin, this  _ Paradelle  _ skulking around. 

There is one other option, Villanelle thinks, her lips coiling into a tight, canine-bearing grin at the audacity of it. One option with a bed and an owner who is otherwise occupied. 

A spring in her step, Villanelle bounds down the stairs, exits onto the cacophonous London street and lets her feet lead her down the memorized, well-tread route. 

***

Eve’s lock is still laughably easy to crack. So easy, in fact, that the mechanism’s internal wi-fi recognizes Villanelle’s phone, automatically connecting and unlocking, as if by memory, with a hiss. Villanelle is surprised the door does not also swing open for her, beckoning her inside. Welcoming her home. 

Crossing the threshold into Eve’s flat, Villanelle lets the door swing shut behind her. She twists the deadbolt for good measure, just in case. Better safe than sorry and all that. 

It’s eerily quiet. Still. Like a tomb. As if the space, Eve’s belongings, recognize her as an intruder, are all holding their breath. Keeping Eve’s secrets. Her mind wanders to the last time she was here, swears she can feel the echo of it. 

_ And I’m just about to lose my mind, honey, honey, yeah _

Villanelle lets her fingers trace along the granite countertop of the galley kitchen. No crumbs. It is clear that Eve has not spent a significant amount of time here in a while and, yet, her presence is everywhere. It is overwhelming. Overpowering. Villanelle can feel it pawing at her throat, warm, cloying fingers trying to get a grip and squeeze. 

Rounding past the dining table, Villanelle spills out into the living room and is struck by the amount of  _ Eve _ suddenly on display for her. It is a monument, Villanelle thinks, a mausoleum to the woman Eve was. Before she started whatever led her down this path. Before Villanelle. Her eyes dart around, unsure of where to settle, what to explore first but knowing she wants, at once, to comb through it all. To be, inexplicably, immersed in this. Slipping into Eve’s apartment has been like slipping through her ribs and into her cavernous chest. The living room - its photos and knick knacks and clothes strewn on the arm of the sofa and the  _ smell _ of Eve clinging to everything - the living room is the heart. Eve’s heart. 

_ You don’t know the first thing about me.  _

“I want to,” Villanelle whispers to know one. The empty room. Eve’s belongings. A peace offering. Or, perhaps, to whomever is watching on the security cameras. 

Villanelle’s fingers, of their own accord, reach for a photo tucked into one of the built-in bookshelves. Eve smiles at her, though the photo, her glorious hair tucked under a terrible hat, wrapped in a puffy parka that makes her slight frame look twice as big. The landscape is blindingly white with snow and in the background, a mountain. The frame reads “Denali National Park.” 

_ I was thinking we should go to Alaska,  _ Villanelle hears herself say, some ripple of recognition rolling past.  _ Have you seen pictures? _ A jolt of loss, of longing, cuts through her gut like the memory of an old wound. A dull ache that is more in her mind than her body, incongruous. 

Her fingers skirt the photo, settle instead around a snowglobe. She plucks it from the shelf to examine it closer. Inside is a tiny, isolated cabin, peaceful in the stillness of its surroundings. She turns the globe over slowly in her hand, bringing the flakes of snow to life, calling forth a blinding blizzard that nearly obscures the cabin from view.  _ Nobody would bother us there.  _

She feels the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips, suddenly light with the wistful possibility of  _ something.  _ She tucks the snowglobe into her jacket pocket and turns down the hall, further into the apartment. 

Reaching the end of the hallway, Villanelle nudges open the door to Eve’s bedroom. There is enough light that she does not have to flip on the switch and Villanelle is thankful. She likes the moodiness of it, of the grey and the shadows. Like she is in some movie scene, a black-and-white feature. Her favorite.

Saving the bed for last, Villanelle instead heads into the bathroom. She is greeted, first by her own reflection, then by her handiwork, the fading streaks of  _ E, V,  _ and an oversized heart still visible on the glass of the mirror.

For a moment, Villanelle imagines what it would be like to be normal. To leave love notes on the mirror for Eve. Stuck to the refrigerator. To bring her breakfast in bed. Would there be space for her, Villanelle wonders, in this apartment? Would it accept her, flawed as she is? Or would the two of them kill each other one night while arguing over whose turn it is to take the garbage bins to the curb?

A warmth settles into Villanelle’s stomach, comforting and heady. Somehow, Eve makes normal, even the normal where they still kill each other, seem not so bad.

Desperate to leave some sort of mark, to contaminate this all with her presence without Eve knowing, Villanelle grabs Eve’s toothbrush and sticks it in her mouth, really works it in there, moving the bristles along her teeth and across her tongue as she picks through an unremarkable medicine cabinet. 

Closing the cabinet doors, Villanelle is faced once again with her own reflection. The Villanelle staring back at her - hair askew, toothbrush dangling between her lips - is beautiful, still, but admittedly not her best. Her skin has lost its sheen, her eyes cloudy, with great, puffy bags taking up residence under them. She thinks, rueful, of the jar of 600-euro moisturizer sitting unused in her apartment in Paris. Eve has no equivalent and Villanelle is at once appalled and impressed, both that she would not have moisturizer and that she looks so good without it. 

Leaving the bathroom, Villanelle comes, at last, to the bed. It is woefully undersized to be shared by two people and accommodate the associated  _ activities  _ and Villanelle is, oddly, relieved at the thought, at the knowledge that Eve has not, would not, be sharing a bed with someone else. 

The suitcase Villanelle lovingly packed still sits open at the foot of the bed. The dress and box of perfume have been removed, but her note, the looping  _ Sorry, baby, _ rests on top of Eve’s silver laptop. She tries to imagine Eve opening the suitcase and finding her gifts, tries to imagine what Eve must have been thinking, feeling, but she cannot quite get there, that part of herself overextended and exhausted. On her hands and knees, she crawls from the foot of the bed over the comforter and up to the pillows, collapsing into them. They smell of Eve, of her shampoo and, better, her hair. Villanelle lets her eyes close for a moment and inhales, takes Eve into her lungs, into her blood, dispersed throughout her body down to her fingertips and toes. It is like being wrapped in the softest, goose feather down duvet. Her eyelids growing heavy, Villanelle fishes her phone out of her back pocket and sets it on the pillow next to her, checking the time before pulling back the heavy top blanket. 

She freezes. Because tangled up just under the comforter, right where Eve would normally sleep, is her green scarf. 

Threading her fingers through it, Villanelle brings it up to her nose, breathes it in. She rubs her thighs together, her face cracking into a wolfish grin. 

***

When Villanelle opens her eyes again, it is fully dark outside. She does not know how long she has been asleep, but she does know something has awoken her. 

As if on cue, she hears it again. The front door rattling. It is is not gentle. 

Instantly she is on alert, her whole body taunt with reactive energy. As quietly as possible she slips from the bed and pads over to the bedroom door, pushing it closed until she can see only a sliver down the hall to where the dining room bends into the kitchen. There is a knife in her boot. A pistol in her jacket that, while unloaded, would be great for battering in a close quarters scuffle. She looks around Eve’s room, a quick assessment of anything that could be used as a weapon, and comes up empty. 

Predictably the door gives way. Footsteps enter the apartment, the muffled voices from the other side of the door growing clearer. There are at least three of them, Villanelle thinks. Not good odds, especially if they are armed. Escape, then, would be her best course of action. She eyes the window at the back of the room, the same one Eve used that first time. Villanelle will need to shimmy down the drainpipe. It is, less than ideal, but she can adapt. 

Still, curiosity gets the better of her and Villanelle lingers by the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of whomever interrupted her much needed nap. Rounding the corner is a younger man, nervous and unsure looking, like he wants to be anywhere but here, participating. He is followed by a stern looking woman Villanelle recognizes as Carolyn Martens, her heels clicking on the dining room hardwood. Her head is turned, she is speaking to someone behind her, still in the kitchen. She cannot hear what they are saying, but she knows that booming voice. A knot forms at the back of her throat. 

Stepping around the corner is Konstantin. 

She needs to leave. Backing away from the door, Villanelle, normally void of all feeling, including fear, is dangerously close to panic. She cannot be found here. But also,  _ why _ are they here? In Eve’s apartment. In her  _ space.  _ Going through her things. She is at once alarmed and strangely protective of it all, as if, in her short time occupying the space, she has somehow laid a claim to it. To whatever it is that has bound her and Eve Polastri together. Villanelle turns toward the window, but her eyes are drawn to the open suitcase. To the laptop. 

If asked about it later, Villanelle would not be able to adequately explain what drove her next few actions. She would probably brush it off, or make a crude joke, anything to keep the heart of the matter at arm’s length. 

Grabbing an empty backpack from under Eve’s desk, Villanelle slides the laptop inside, along with several other spy-looking gadgets. Zipping the bag and slinging it over her shoulder, she crosses the room, pushes the window open and, taking one last look inside, ducks her upper body out the open window. Grasping the drainpipe with both hands, she hoists herself onto it, wrapping her lower body around and getting her feet into position, like a climbing rope. She angles herself partially around the corner of the building to hide and stays still and silent. 

In a beat, Konstantin is at the window, looking out. Suspicious but unable, yet, to raise the alarm. Villanelle has stopped breathing. She thinks of the knife in her boot. She could reach him, she thinks, if she lunged. Stab him in the throat and topple him off balance and onto the pavement below. Her fingers twitch. 

A voice from inside the apartment calls to him and he moves away from the window. Villanelle sighs, though whether it is from regret or relief she is not sure. Looking down at the courtyard below, she begins her descent. 

It is time to go find Eve. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd considered doing a big Paradelle reveal here but decided to wait until a later chapter. Guess you'll just have to keep reading *shrugs*


	17. Sleep with the lights on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all it has been a WEEK  
Sorry this update is so late. My head has been empty of everything that isn't work and I've been pecking this out a few hundred words at a time whenever I had the energy. But it's Friday, which means I finally had time to sit my ass down and finish it. And now I'm going to sleep. And going bird watching.

From behind the glass panel of the bus stop, Eve watches a deer. 

It watches her too. Their eyes meet, the doe’s dark pupils impossibly dilated, blown out, like a window into pure, frenetic energy.

Eve can relate. 

She’s practically stranded on a bench at a bus stop on the side of a country road in the middle of  _ asshole  _ nowhere, England, and yes, that is its scientific name thank-you-very-much. There's never a bus in London when you need it, unless you _really_ need it — like when you’re being literally shot at by a  _ fucking  _ infuriating, confusing, insufferable assassin — in which case one will miraculously appear.

Lulled to sleep almost instantly by the vibration of the window against her skull, Eve's brain plunged directly into the kind of deep slumber that's really closer to a trial run of death while the bus ferried her safely out of London. Some hours (lifetimes?) later, she was jostled awake to discover she was, disappointingly, still alive and, also disappointingly, at the end of the route. Disoriented, she was deposited onto the sidewalk far from the outskirts of the city, bedraggled and feeling rather like a vagabond. 

And now she is ... here. Eve isn’t sure where here is, partly because her geography gets pretty fuzzy once she leaves London, but mostly because if _she_ has no idea where she is, well, _no one else_ would have any idea either. Not Villanelle, not Carolyn, not even that creep Konstantin if he ever decides to show his face. She has to keep herself safe, even from herself. It’s the kind of logic that only makes sense to someone running a double-digit sleep debt and Eve is owning that category right now. The grand fucking master. 

A cold wind bites through her parka. There’s no buildings here, the high rises having given way to patches of trees and underbrush, and there's no vehicle exhaust and smog to hold in the heat. Eve pulls her zipper up higher, lamenting silently the lack of greenhouse gases in this otherwise pristine countryside. There’s even a windmill in the distance. Eve rolls her eyes because how fucking  _ British  _ is that? 

Her phone, off since she scrambled onto the bus, sits heavy in her bag. The longer it stays off the longer she can run, the longer she can stay under without surfacing. But she’s going to have to turn it on  _ sometime.  _ Or use her credit card, or do any number of things that will throw a big “Eve is Here” signal into the air. Her escape has, admittedly, not been so well planned out. She’s done better, for sure. Forget her laptop or any of her work equipment, she doesn’t even have a spare pair of underwear. Eve sighs, long and suffering, the heat of her breath condensing on the glass of the bus stop. 

For a moment, then, she’s back at the parking garage, out in the open, a gun pointed directly at her chest and Villanelle’s eyes shining like a million pieces of broken glass, whatever window existing between them shattered. She’d never seen a gun fired from that end, that perspective, before. Seen how the muzzle erupts, the split second flash of the gunpowder igniting, the cloud of smoke and residue. It was fascinating, strangely. Until Villanelle missed. Then it was fucking terrifying. Terrifying that Villanelle would have the clean, clear opportunity to kill her and choose not to. And terrifying that, after doing all that legwork accepting her impending death, she was still alive. 

Most would have taken that as some twisted act of mercy. For Eve, it was nothing short of cruel. 

The deer huffs and its nostrils flare. They’re still regarding each other, a kind of knowing passing between them like a red string. Ears flick back and forth. Nervous hooves paw at the ground. Eve feels her own pulse quicken in understanding. She knows what it’s like to be pursued by some phantom predator, a shadow in an alley, a rustling in the grass. A specter hanging over her, real or imagined. It didn’t matter. What matters is how it  _ felt.  _

In her apartment, hell even at MI6, Eve could control the situation, could slow everything down, set up her play or run out the game clock. Villanelle’s true advantage was the blitz, the sheer rush of concentrated power to overwhelm her prey, but on her home court Eve could set the maze, scope out the angles of unfair advantage and turn the tables back on the tiger. 

Out in the open, literally and figuratively, she was as jittery and spooked as the deer, one mistake away from total disaster but seemingly unable to stop herself from making it. 

A car whizzes by. Both Eve and the deer turn their heads to watch it, then look back at each other. Eve knows what’s going to happen, then. The deer too. Their fates click into place like gears slotting together, inexorably turning. Like the steep climb to the top of a roller coaster, wheels locked into place. There’s a part of Eve, somewhere, the last rational scrap, watching herself like an out-of-body experience, through a mirror, pleading and begging. The deer, too, probably feels the distant echo but remains powerless. She must do this. They must do this.

The sound of an engine cuts through the silence and a sedan crests the hill. Eve’s pulse is in her ears, fluttering quick like a rabbit’s. Her fingers flex. She wants to bang against the glass, get the animal's attention, distract it or drive it on, she isn’t sure. But she remains still, as if her muscles are paralyzed, like she’s in a dream. The deer turns toward the road. 

Eve thinks back to that first report. She sees it clearly, still, in her mind, as if it was still happening. As if some part of her is still stuck there, some version of Eve left back at her desk with her fingers poised over the keyboard, two paths diverging. Like this was all some simulated peek into the future, the last page of an ill-fated option in a choose-your-own adventure book. Was it inevitable? Or was she here by choice? 

She sees the muzzle of the pistol again. Amber dying on the pavement. Villanelle pressed against her at the bar. A bloody lip. An interview. A lunch. An injured hand and a green scarf. Villanelle stabbing with glee thinking she has Eve. The flight down the drainpipe. The apple. A tiny mugshot at the bottom of a report. Villanelle, that first time in the MI6 bathroom. A request to leave her hair down. They flash before Eve like a movie reel in reverse, the way your life is supposed to flash before your eyes as you die. Only Eve’s not dying now. She’s been dying, slowly, for the last two years. She just needs to get it over with so she can  _ live  _ again. 

The collision is violent but Eve doesn’t flinch. She stares, unwavering, absorbing every detail the way the car’s frame and the animal's skeleton absorb the impact. She commits it to memory, the dull sound of metal-meeting-hide, the urgent squeal of rubber against asphalt, the way, for a fraction of a second, the deceptively delicate hooves each align and point skyward as the deer rolls over the car’s roof before dropping off the back and landing in a heap unceremoniously on the pavement. 

For a long moment nothing moves. 

Then, like dawn breaking over the horizon, the deer raises its head off the asphalt. Stumbling back onto its feet, it lets out an indignant bleet and trots back the way it came, slipping back into the trees, content in the knowledge that it did more damage back to whatever was trying to harm it. 

Eve smiles. Reaching into her purse, she powers on her phone and opens the AirBnb app. 

****

Luckily, through a little miracle known as the “off season,” Eve manages to snag a decent looking rental within walking distance. “Within walking distance” being about two miles away down this remote country road but whatever, Eve needs the steps. And to clear her head. Which seems to be her perpetual state as of late. Needing to clear her head. What she’ll do when — if — her head is ever clear she can only guess. Maybe throw a party. Or find something new to fill it with. 

It’s going to snow. Eve can feel it, remembers the peculiar feeling the air takes on before a flurry from her winters growing up in Connecticut. Some sense in her twinges the way a healed bone aches when it’s going to rain. Like the world is holding its breath in anticipation. 

Her feet hurt. Next time she runs away she’s bringing better footwear. 

The rental is a guest house set well away from the rather quirky looking main home. It backs up onto a vast expanse of rolling hills — no, moors, as if she’s in some Jane Austen novel. Or better yet,  _ Wuthering Heights _ . Eve silently reminds herself to keep all the windows closed.

It's dark by the time she arrives. The owner, a rather stern looking grey-haired woman, is waiting outside with the keys when Eve walks up the gravel path off the main road. Unlocking the front door begrudgingly, she gives Eve the nickel tour of the one bedroom, one bathroom cabin while somehow conveying that this is an extreme imposition, despite the fact that Eve is literally paying her to use this otherwise empty property. She mumbles something about a cleaning deposit before leaving Eve alone in the living room with her thoughts. 

It’s quiet. That’s thought number one. Eve suddenly wants to fill the space with sound, let the vibrations work through every corner, every hiding place, drive out whatever may be lurking there. Shake those cobwebs. Eyeing a smart speaker on the coffee table, Eve flips on her phone’s Bluetooth and connects to it while loading up Spotify because  _ fuck it  _ she’s already used her phone and her credit card and if Villanelle or Carolyn or anyone else is coming to kill her, she might as well live a little in the meantime. She puts on Motown’s Greatest Hits because  _ hell yes  _ and turns the volume all the way up, the opening bars of  _ My Girl  _ so loud they cut down to her very soul. 

She could dance. This is a song that begets dancing and it’s been so long since Eve’s  _ danced,  _ since she’s had a good reason too and sometimes, the best reason to do something is the lack of a reason not to. She drops her bag and phone onto the couch and lets herself really feel the music, feels herself loosen up as she shifts her weight from one leg to the other in time with the beat, lets her shoulders roll as The Temptations croon. 

_ Talkin’ ‘bout my girl _

Closing her eyes, she twirls lazily around the living room, holding up her hands like she’s mouthing the words into a big silver microphone. The music crescendos and she kicks off her shoes, boldly sliding down the hardwood hallway  _ Risky Business _ -style… 

And comes to a stop directly in front of Villanelle. 

_ My girl _

“Oh fuck,” Eve breathes. 

“Yes, Eve,” Villanelle replies, cold. “Oh fuck indeed.” 

Eve turns to run but there’s nowhere to fucking run because the whole house is hardly bigger than a shed and far too soon she’s reached the kitchen counter, desperately grasping at the first thing her fingers can get a grip on, wildly swinging it back at her pursuer.

It’s a spatula. 

It must sting at least a little, or maybe it’s the surprise, but Villanelle brings a hand up to her cheek and looks at Eve for a beat. 

“Are you kidding me?” 

Eve can only squeak in response. Then squeak again as she’s effortlessly tossed against the fridge with a strength that really shouldn't be surprising yet leaves her breathless. One hand grinds the bones in Eve’s wrist together until she drops the spatula — she hears it distantly drop against the kitchen floor, the rest of her senses having oriented themselves fully toward Villanelle and, more specifically, the blade pressed against her throat. 

This is different. Eve feels it in the bruising grip, in the solid press of Villanelle’s weight. Not sensual or seductive, as it was before. Overpowering. Dominating. Villanelle’s eyes are black and dead, like looking into a shark’s stare as it soullessly tears apart a seal. There’s no reaching her, no moving her. Eve feels the warm trickle of blood on her neck as the knife breaks the skin, the blade slipping a fraction. 

_ But soon you’ll get bored. You’ll get anxious to see what comes next.  _ Eve’s words come back to her as she tries to find some handhold, some leverage to push back but Villanelle is unrelenting.

_ And I’ll reach into my bag of tricks and come up empty.  _

Eve makes a decision then. Her gaze drops from Villanelle’s eyes to her mouth, held tense in the strain of keeping Eve pinned to the fridge. With one last gasp of strength, Eve surges forward, pressing her lips to Villanelle's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by my boss' boss' boss being in town. Yikes. 
> 
> As always, you'll find me on Tumblr at @vaultdweller. Feel free to say hi


	18. Gimme, gimme, what I want, what I deserve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. Have a *looks at written notes on hand* weirdly long sex scene?

Villanelle’s every cell, every atom, every electron and the infinite, beautiful spaces between are all drumming with purpose. Every muscle, every dilated synapse, the currents within her alight with a singular focus. 

To kill. 

Like the sides of a Rubik’s cube all suddenly slotting into place, Villanelle is dialed up to 100 and pushing into overdrive. 

Killing for the Twelve, killing for someone else, for another’s agenda, never felt like  _ this.  _ It was Colombian cocaine cut with baking soda. 

This, though.  _ This _ was so pure it would stick to a knife. 

Villanelle’s nostrils flare as she presses into Eve, careful not to put too much weight behind the blade at Eve’s throat. She could cut through the skin easily, slice through the tendons and into her jugular, her windpipe — she could practically see how the crimson blood would spurt, could practically hear the gurgling and  _ god  _ Villanelle loved the breathy, gasping ones — but ...

But that would spoil it. And this was too good. Sublime. Villanelle could already tell all her fantasizing, all the indulgent daydreaming would not even come close to the real thing. Like an addict hitting a fresh, untapped vein, Villanelle is practically losing her mind over it and she has only drawn a tiny rivulet of blood. She licks her lips and lets more of her weight fall against Eve’s chest, keeping her in place. 

She is breathing heavy but controlled, a cheetah sprinting full tilt across the savanna in pursuit of a gazelle. Eve may be quicker in the corners but Villanelle has her in the straights. Her mind empties. There are no thoughts, only liquid, bright feeling blooming behind her eyes like ink droplets in water. The man she goes to see in Paris, the shrink, had called this ‘mindfulness.’ She had never achieved it before, but he was right — it is empyrean. She will have to thank him. 

Something snaps at the edges of Villanelle’s consciousness like a static shock, disrupting her dreamy haze. Annoyingly, she tips back into herself, fitting back into her body. 

Seeing, now, what is in front of her, she realizes Eve is much closer. So close she can smell her shampoo. So close she can feel Eve’s lips against hers. Feel her mouth pressing. Pleading. Asking. 

_ Oh.  _

Villanelle swallows, her eyes sliding shut as she lets her own lips push back. Eve’s mouth is hot against hers and Villanelle flushes as she tries to keep up, tries to chase Eve’s lips, follow the movements, a perfect mirror against each other. It is not gentle, should not be gentle after everything and when Eve’s teeth scrape against her bottom lip Villanelle bites back, letting her teeth worry over the healing cut on Eve’s lip until she can taste the iron tang of blood. Eve gasps into her, a quick intake of breath and Villanelle feels her heart nearly stop, can feel the air leaving her own lungs. She is practically squirming in her own skin, everything too tight and too raw. She is ready to beat herself against an edge and break out of her old self. And when Eve’s tongue traces her lips, when it slides against her teeth, Villanelle needs it so badly she practically  _ whimpers _ . 

She is off balance, then, spinning and, before she realizes it, their positions are reversed. Her back hits the solid face of the refrigerator with a thud and, suddenly, she is the one with a knife pressed against her, pointed at her sternum. She lets out a sound halfway between a gasp and a laugh at having been caught so off guard. Eve’s eyes burn into her own. 

“ _ Wow,”  _ Villanelle huffs. For a moment, she swears she smells  _ La Villanelle,  _ the heady scent rising like a phantom mist between them. 

“I can,” Eve says, letting the tip of the knife dig into the dip where Villanelle's clavicle meets. The singular pain point buzzes in Villanelle’s mind like a high note. She presses her thighs together, desperate, and nods. 

“You can.” Because she could. She has. They had. Hurt each other. Not physically, yet, but there was only a few millimeters of skin serving as the last barrier between them, between their separate spaces, their separate planes, entwining. They are still pressed impossibly close, chests heaving in tandem, Villanelle inhaling as Eve exhales, as if they are sharing air, opposite ends of a diaphragm filling the same lungs. 

“I can,” Eve repeats, stronger this time. Resolute. Her eyes are black but in them, Villanelle swears she can see stars, see an echo of this across dimensions. This inevitability. Villanelle nods. 

“You can.” 

Villanelle’s fingers come up to wrap around Eve’s, still clutching the knife handle in a steady, unyielding grip. Eve’s hand is cool and soft and the space where their skin touches is electric. 

“Let me make it easy for you,” Villanelle murmurs, easing the knife up, letting it drag against the skin of her throat as she raises her chin.

“Here is quick, but messy.” 

Their fingers still knotted on the handle, she guides the knife down her throat like a planchette. Like she is trying to communicate something to Eve, something she does not quite have words for yet. The blade stops over her heart. 

“Here would be difficult, but satisfying.” 

The knife is moving again. A whimper teases on her lips as the tip traces along her chest, dances along the edge of her tits before diving south, jabbing the hard muscle of her stomach, just above her navel. Her breathing is heavy, as if she is drowning, gulping down air. Eve stares at their hands, at the knife and its journey, mesmerized. 

“And here,” she says, a smile in her voice. “Here would really fucking hurt.” 

Eve watches the knife for a long moment, transfixed. Almost on its own the tip drifts to the left, to a spot just under Villanelle’s ribs and she swears, somehow, she feels the echo of pain, of a blade slipping in. Eve’s hand jerks, as if she has been shocked, but Villanelle holds her fingers there, holds them together. Eve’s eyes snap up and meet Villanelle’s and there is so much certainty, so much want rolling off her, like she has been carrying it for ages, across lifetimes and it is finally right in front of her. Villanelle has never been able to read other people, has never wanted to but here, in this moment, she can  _ feel  _ Eve’s desire passing through her, can feel her own desire rising to match it, two thrumming low notes harmonizing across bodies. 

Eve snatches the knife away, then, slams it against the granite countertop and grabs the fabric of Villanelle’s jacket, bunching it her fist as she pulls them together. 

The kiss is hard. Not a request, it is a demand, one Villanelle finds herself falling to. The space between them has evaporated, fully, and Villanelle, unsure of where she can touch, what she is allowed in this exchange, lets her hands hang out to the side, like she is afraid Eve will disappear like a dream if she tries to hold on too tight. She feels Eve smile against her lips, no doubt sensing their odd position, and then she is reaching with her own hands, grasping Villanelle’s wrists and guiding Villanelle's hands back and into her hair. 

Villanelle groans as her fingers card wild curls and she swears her brain short circuits trying to process the sensory overload. Eve’s mouth is insistent against hers and there is teeth and tongue and  _ god  _ Villanelle can taste the want, is sure she tastes just as wanting and needy. She is hot, sweltering and suffocating under all of this, under what Eve is doing to her and Villanelle has a stray thought that this, this might be better than killing. 

And they had hardly begun. Villanelle has another thought, then, that she might die at the end of all this. Die from all this feeling. Die from being too alive. 

Eve is tugging at her jacket now and Villanelle feels a sense of vertigo at the idea of not being in charge here, at being led by Eve. Like the world has spun around and she is seeing everything from the top down. She enjoys the weightlessness of it and gives herself in to it, falling into her, into the well of gravity around Eve like she is the black hole at the heart of everything Villanelle has ever wanted. Eve’s lips, so soft yet so adamant, never leave hers and Villanelle worries she will get too used to the feeling of them, will always be wanting it. 

Eve might ruin her. Or ruin what she was and remake her around a new center. The idea of it breaks something inside Villanelle, something already weakened and crumbling. But it excites her, too. She tastes the possibility of it on Eve’s tongue as it slides against her own. 

Eve is confident as she walks Villanelle backward, back down the hallway they just raced out of. Villanelle swears she can feel the ghost of it, the static energy still lingering in the air. She feels it collect on her fingertips still laced in Eve’s hair. Feels it on her lips as Eve pulls back a fraction, dances just out of reach, teasing as Villanelle tries to chase but does not close the gap without a signal, without permission. Eve’s fingers trail to the zipper of her jacket and draw it down as Villanelle walks back, trusting, until her back is once again pressed against a wall, the end of the hallway. She lets out a long breath, her hands obediently pulling back so Eve can push the jacket off her shoulders and drop it to the floor in a heap. 

Underneath, Villanelle is wearing only a tank top. It is simple and white but she is acutely aware that Eve has never seen this much of her before. She is at once torn between wanting to strip off more, wanting to show more of herself to Eve, and wanting Eve to discover for herself, to pull off layer after layer until Villanelle is bare before her. 

Eve watches her, her eyes dark and hooded. Something heavy dances there. Villanelle can almost feel it on her skin and she arches her back against the wall trying to press up into it, find the friction of it. It has been too long since Eve has touched her and she whines, petulant and demanding. Eve’s lips curl into a grin and in the hallway shadows it looks fearsome. Predatory. Villanelle swallows, waiting for what is next. 

Next comes as Eve’s fingers slide up the plane of her stomach, between her breasts and Villanelle curses the thin fabric of her tank top. She is nearly panting now but the air is so thick she hardly feels like she is breathing at all. There is a pressure against her throat as Eve’s fingers circle there, firm. Eve’s breath tickles Villanelle’s cheek and she knows Eve must be on her tiptoes to make up the height but somehow, Villanelle feels small, the fulcrum of control firmly in Eve’s hands. It makes Villanelle’s eyes roll back and she has to stop herself from trying to grind up against Eve’s thigh. 

“Eve,” she rasps, arousal and the hand against her throat leaving her voice gravelly and rough. She is asking for something, but is not sure how. She hopes Eve knows. Trusts her to know. 

Eve licks her lips. Villanelle watches the movement, transfixed. She is struck by a wave of want. It crashes over her, rolls her until she is pitching forward as Eve leads her again, pulling her back through the open bedroom door, across the threshold.  _ There is only one bed,  _ Villanelle wants to joke.  _ Whatever will we do?  _ But there is only one thing to do. They both know it, maybe have known it this whole time. That there was only one way this would end. Maybe two ways, but with the same root connecting them. 

Eve reaches for the hem of her own shirt, pulling it over her head and tossing it into a corner and it is not  _ fair,  _ Villanelle thinks, to do that without warning because suddenly there is skin and Villanelle is still expected to function, expected to breathe in Eve’s presence. She groans, pained, her fingers clenching around air, like Eve is behind glass, off limits. Taking pity, Eve reaches for Villanelle’s hands, leading them around her back, their bodies flush, so close and yet, somehow, with too many clothes still between them. 

“Go on,” Eve says, low and hot, her lips ghosting Villanelle’s ear. Villanelle’s fingers zero in on the clasp of Eve’s bra but she fumbles for a second. She is overeager, her brain and fingers not quite in sync but she gets it soon enough, making enough space between them to let the bra fall to the ground as her fingertips trail along the muscles of Eve’s back. She presses kisses to Eve’s shoulders and along her throat, tasting salt and feeling the way Eve’s heartbeat flutters against her lips. She lingers there, at Eve’s pulse, where her blood is so close to the surface. It stokes something primal in her. She wants to bite, to mark, but waits, unsure of how far she can push, what Eve will let her do. 

Waits until Villanelle feels Eve’s fingers thread through her hair and pull her closer, pressing Villanelle harder against her throat. She even lowers her shoulder, presenting the expanse for Villanelle’s waiting mouth. An invitation. Villanelle growls. She inhales, deeply, before pressing an open-mouthed kiss over Eve’s pulse, pulling the skin between her teeth. Eve groans, then, deep and molten, her nails biting into Villanelle’s hair, little pinpricks of pain as Villanelle runs her tongue over Eve’s racing heartbeat, proof she is affecting something deep inside Eve, at her core. She could do this for forever, spend endless hours tangled in Eve’s limbs, marking every inch of her skin. 

_ You are mine.  _

Strong fingers are tugging at her hair, pulling her back. Eve holds her there, hands falling down to rest against Villanelle’s cheeks. They feel hot against her face, but steady, as if Villanelle is about to break apart, shatter, and Eve is holding her together. Eve’s thumbs run along her cheekbones. The touch is gentle, more gentle than she deserves, than anyone has been with her in a long, long time, but there is something else there, something deeply sensual, like she is pulling Villanelle open. Wetness pricks at the corner of her eyes, but Villanelle does not blink it away, wanting Eve to see. The edge of the bed knocks against the back of her knees. 

“Sit,” Eve commands and Villanelle does, bouncing softly on the pillow top mattress. It is disarming, how quickly she complies, but there is something in Eve’s tone that allows no question. She has always rebelled before, tested her limits but, perhaps with Eve, the true rebellion is to give in. Her gaze slides to the blossoming bruise on Eve’s throat and her mouth waters. She is buzzing with anticipation, watches Eve, demure and enthralled, from her seat on the bed. Eve does not budge. 

“Eve,” she whines, drawing out the first syllable in some approximation of pathetic. The skin around Eve’s eyes is tight and Villanelle can tell she is trying to hold back a smile. “What is next?” 

There is a beat, and Villanelle wonders if Eve is weighing the options, weighing the delicious ways to draw this out. Between the mark on Eve’s throat, the expanse of skin along her stomach, her tits, her nipples hardened by cold and arousal, Villanelle’s eyes are not sure where to land. She cycles through them all, dizzying, hoping for Eve to put her out of this exquisite misery. 

Eve swallows, visibly, before bringing her hands down to her own pants, undoing the button and pushing them slowly, slowly down, leaving her dark underwear and  _ Jesus,  _ again, Villanelle could do with some kind of warning because Eve’s legs are perfect and all Villanelle can think about is how her thighs would feel bracketing her head. 

Usually this is the point where Villanelle begins to get bored. Where her mind starts to wander. The chase, the capture so full of excitement that everything after feels dull in comparison. 

But now, with Eve climbing into her lap, the dizzying slide of skin against soft skin, Villanelle is captivated. Captive, maybe, as Eve perches above her, raised up on her knees, her hands coming up to tip Villanelle’s chin to her waiting mouth. They come together again, a clash of lips and teeth and Villanelle wants, she wants. Wants to mold herself to Eve, fill the negative space like sand filling an hourglass. 

Eve is the eager one now. Villanelle feels Eve's fingers clamoring to untuck the hem of her tank top from her pants. She murmurs a quiet but firm “Off” against Villanelle’s lips and two arms raise, hands above her head, surrender. Eve pulls off her shirt and bra in one go and before Villanelle can even process the sudden exposure she is pushed against the bed, Eve straddling her hips, her gaze searing lines along her torso. 

Villanelle feels her mouth go dry. It is different, being on this end. She wonders, briefly, if this is how others felt as she was about to kill them. Her hips buck softly against Eve’s center at the thought. 

Above her, Eve is all angles. A lioness with her prey trapped, toying with it before devouring her meal. It would be divine, Villanelle thinks, to be devoured by Eve. Her mind is racing, everything too fast and too slow all at once. Her fingers, searching for purchase, ball the sheets up in a desperate grip. Another needy whine claws at her throat. 

As if sensing Villanelle’s unraveling patience, Eve drops her head down to Villanelle’s stomach. Their eyes meet as Eve presses a kiss there, just above the button of her pants and the air leaves Villanelle’s lungs as Eve urges her hips up to tug off her pants and underwear. 

Head rolling back against the mattress, Villanelle stares up at the ceiling, draws gulping, steadying breaths. She can feel Eve’s lips and clever fingers trailing up her legs but she cannot look. She is so wet already, so far gone and if she looks, if she looks it will be over. She could come from looking. She flushes, embarrassed at the thought but oddly thrilled, too. She tries to close her legs, to squirm away but Eve’s hands against her knees keep her pried open. She brings her fist to her mouth and bites down on her knuckles, the sharp, digging pain of her teeth grounding her. Her eyes close and she tries to count, sheep or something, anything to stay suspended in this space between wanting to implode under Eve’s touch and wanting to flip them over to take back the reins of control. 

When her eyes open again, her vision is swimming with Eve, hovering above her, hair cascading down in a perfect curtain around them. 

“I masturbate about you a lot,” Villanelle blurts out. Eve stills. Villanelle thinks maybe she should have kept her fist in her mouth.  _ Too much? _

“Good,” Eve replies. Villanelle’s heart starts again. 

“This will be better.” 

Their bodies meet each other, chest to chest, center to center, legs twined together. Eve’s thigh slots between Villanelle’s legs and the first bit of friction there is so electric Villanelle can taste it. Her whole universe has narrowed down to the spots where Eve is touching her, where they are connected. Where her mouth ghosts against the shell of Villanelle’s ear, where her hand toys with one of Villanelle’s tits, where her hips grind, languid and long, against Villanelle’s thigh. 

“That’s it, baby,” Eve whispers into her neck and Villanelle would have never guessed Eve would be one to talk during sex but the discovery has her jerking against the pressure of Eve’s hips. She lifts her head, searching for Eve’s mouth. She finds it, lips searing against hers, pressing her flat against the mattress. 

Eve draws back, slowly. She stays an inch from Villanelle’s lips, their noses touching, watching each other. Villanelle is vulnerable here, she knows. Eve could kill her. She could kill Eve. But Eve could kill her. Everything is heightened. Technicolor. Villanelle turns her head to the side, giving Eve perfect access to her throat. Offers herself. 

With a low groan, Eve takes the bait. Without pretense, Villanelle feels the sharp sting of teeth on her neck, then lower, along the curve of her collarbone. And when a hot mouth and teeth rake over a pert nipple, Villanelle cries out, cannot contain what is welling up inside her. 

Somehow, without Villanelle noticing, Eve’s fingers have slipped down to replace her thigh. Villanelle keens at the first touch of fingertips against slick heat, at the maddening shocks against her clit, driven on by the steady grind of Eve’s hips. Villanelle feels herself tear in two, one half focused on the delicious feel of Eve’s mouth, the other on the pressure building between her legs. It is tortuous. It is everything. 

Resting her chin against Villanelle’s chest, Eve stills, looking up at Villanelle, her expression inscrutable. Villanelle is struck by the emptiness, the void of something so brief and so new but so overwhelming. She whines, canting her hips but getting nothing. 

“Can I?” Eve asks, her voice cutting through the frenetic haze of Villanelle’s thoughts. Villanelle does not know what she is asking, nor does it matter. The answer is yes. Whatever she wants, as long as Eve never stops touching her. 

But when she feels fingers dip lower, Villanelle suddenly understands the questions and nods vigorously. 

“Please, Eve.” 

Eve crashes their lips together as two fingers press inside her. It is better than a knife, Villanelle thinks absently as they  _ curl.  _ The stretch is delicious, as is the way Eve thrusts into her with her hips at the same time, like she cannot control herself with Villanelle under her. Villanelle understands the feeling. Her knuckles ache from their vice grip around the sheets and her eyes close to focus on the raw, singular feeling of Eve fucking her. 

“Villanelle,” Eve grunts from somewhere above her. “Villanelle, touch me.” 

Stiff fingers drop the sheets immediately and Villanelle raises one hand to tangle in Eve’s hair and the other to claw at her back. She will not last long, now. She is clenching around Eve’s fingers and when her hips rise to meet Eve’s there is a thumb against her clit that has her seeing stars. She latches onto Eve’s shoulder with her teeth, sure it is the only thing stopping her from waking the whole hamlet as she is driven mad by it. By Eve. 

“That’s a good girl,” Eve gasps against her throat and Villanelle is tumbling, tumbling over into weightlessness, a climax of breathtaking, supernal sensation. Villanelle’s nails no doubt carve little half-moon cuts into Eve’s back as she rides it out, is reduced to a boneless, buzzing cloud. She is given hardly a minute of recovery before Eve drops off to the side, back against the mattress to pull Villanelle on top of her. Their mouths meet in a slow, deep kiss and Villanelle can feel the wetness between Eve’s legs even through her underwear. She groans against Eve’s mouth. It is  _ her _ turn. 

Sensing, somehow, what Villanelle wants, Eve nods against her lips, pushing her head down, gentle but insistent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me (before writing this chapter): I don't know if I'm going to be able to write this sex scene  
*two days of writing and 4,000 words later*   
Me: Go off I guess???


	19. While the fire is hot, bathe in the glow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy late Valentine's Day, clowns!

Eve watches the snow fall from the sky in great white clumps from over Villanelle’s well-muscled shoulder. It makes her think of Connecticut, of winter storms in the woods and if she listens close, she can almost hear the sound of it catching in the tree branches and gathering on the ground, the soft, icy static contrasting so sharply with the heavy wet silence of the forest. She could hide behind it like a curtain. Like the two of them are caught in a snowglobe stirred by their inevitable collision and trapped in a snowstorm of their own design. 

For a fleeting second she thinks of fallout, of her and Villanelle and their actions as a nuclear explosion, the consequences of which, the insidious radiation, were now raining down around them. To Carolyn Martens, and Konstantin too, this was probably closer to the truth. 

In retrospect, Eve realizes she probably should have closed the curtains before their … activities. In retrospect of that retrospect, there was nothing on this earth that was going to stop her from fucking Villanelle in that moment. Taking even a second to shut the blinds, taking her hands off Villanelle, was unthinkable. 

She gives a long, languid stretch and presses her lips to the expanse of skin beneath her chin. Villanelle hasn’t stirred in hours, not since they drifted off around midnight, dragged into the depths of sheer exhaustion and exertion. It must be somewhere around noon now, Eve guesses, and still there is no sound from Villanelle save soft snores into her pillow. 

It surprises Eve, this slumber. This uncharacteristic serenity so at odds with the predator who pinned her against the refrigerator with a knife at her throat ready, unquestioningly, to end her life. She wonders how that Villanelle and this soft Villanelle can coexist in one body, one mind, without tearing itself in two. Like negatives of each other. She thinks of Julie Michaels, and of the countless other personas Villanelle has no doubt taken up during her career as an assassin. She thinks of Oksana, of the prison mugshot, of brown hair and a swollen lip, younger than Villanelle yet older, somehow, behind her eyes. Eve wonders if there’s a part of her in there too, still, buried deep like a child locked away in a closet.

_ Who is the real Villanelle? _ Eve hears her mind ask.  _ Which one of you is the real one? _ None of them, Eve reckons, are truly Villanelle. But, by that logic, wouldn’t that mean they are  _ all  _ the real Villanelle? Like a kaleidoscope twisting the same pattern into new shapes with each turn of the dial. A crystal vase shattered into countless pieces, all uniquely faceted but coming from the same base. 

“Your brain,” a low voice murmurs from somewhere below her. “Is so  _ loud.”  _

Eve frowns. Niko used to tell her that. Always accusatory, with an edge, like how  _ dare _ she devote any of her extra brain power to something that wasn’t him. But this is rounder, somehow, and underneath Eve, Villanelle curls like a cat in the sun, the hint of a dreamy smile on her lips. 

“It is cute.” There’s nothing sharp there, and when Villanelle’s eyes finally slide open, the irises are cloudy with sleep and something that looks a bit like awe. 

Eve’s chest tightens and then she’s falling, tumbling into warm, sleep-slow lips, flushing at the way their bodies fit together like this. Their legs are wrapped together in the sheets, tangled, and Eve can’t quite feel where she ends and where Villanelle begins.  _ This is dangerous _ , she thinks, fleetingly, not because Villanelle is a cold blooded killer, that there might still be a knife in this bed waiting for her, but because she might  _ want  _ this and god, she can already see the cities the two of them will burn to the ground, can see the smoke rising as her tongue traces Villanelle’s lips. 

“What were you thinking about?” Villanelle asks against her mouth, pulling back to meet Eve’s eyes, searching. 

“You,” Eve answers on reflex.  _ Always you.  _ Villanelle grins at that and leans back against the pillow, stretching slightly, putting the collection of bite marks peppering her throat and chest on full display. Eve’s mouth goes dry. Seeing them pulls at a part of her that is raw and wild.

“Me? And what do you think of me?” Villanelle preens. It is a strange way to ask the question. Eve wonders for a moment if it was lost in translation, until she remembers her apartment, the shitty one, and how Villanelle hung on to every word Eve said about her, practically unfurling under Eve’s attention. She fights the urge to roll her eyes. 

“That you’re insufferable,” Eve retorts. There’s no bite to her words and Villanelle gapes at her but there’s mirth dancing behind her eyes. “Arrogant. Temperamental. Rude.” Eve lets her fingertips drag up along Villanelle’s chest, between her tits and up to her throat, to the blooming bruise there. She digs her fingernails into it. 

“Spoiled.” Villanelle sucks in a quick breath. Bites her lip and arches into Eve’s touch. Eve can feel her pulse flutter, feel the blood rushing to the surface. She tightens her grip just a fraction.  _ Beautiful. _

“Did you hate it?” Villanelle pants, pressing against Eve’s hand, her eyes hooded, a dark light lurking there. “Fucking a killer. Being fucked by one. Did you feel dirty? Do you regret it? Did it make you hate yourself?” 

“No,” Eve answers, truthfully. She has always known who Villanelle is, what she is. If that was a problem this wouldn’t have happened. 

“What do you feel?” 

Eve watches Villanelle for a long moment, considering. Considering what would make someone like her, someone so brash, bright and brimming with self-centered freedom, ask such questions. She hates it, whatever it is, leaning forward to replace fingertips with lips at Villanelle’s neck, sucking at her pulsepoint for a beat before pulling back to meet Villanelle’s eyes. 

“Hungry.” 

Villanelle’s eyebrows raise, drawn up as if with a string. On anyone else it would look like surprise. On Villanelle it looks obscene. Eve knows what’s coming before the other woman’s lips even move. 

“Don’t,” she says in warning. It’s fruitless. 

“I could give you something to eat,” Villanelle says, unable to help herself, smarmy and suggestive. 

“God,” Eve huffs, turning away to disentangle herself from Villanelle and scoot to sit at the end of the bed. Behind her, Villanelle cackles. How someone could at once be a sexy ageless predator and so  _ utterly  _ 26 Eve can’t wrap her head around. She decides her first impression of Villanelle is the correct one.  _ Insufferable.  _

She stands, fully naked. There’s a hitch in Villanelle’s laugh, then reverent silence.  _ Serves her right,  _ Eve thinks, padding over to the drawers to pull out a change of clothes. Her hands, moving on autopilot, grasp for the knob on the top drawer, searching. 

It hits her then. This isn’t her home. These aren’t her drawers. Not her bed, either. God, those weren’t her  _ sheets.  _ She fled like a flushed pheasant without even thinking to grab a change of underwear. She groans. 

“Fuck.” 

In the mirror, she watches Villanelle, naked but draped luxuriously in the duvet, slide to the edge of the bed behind her with a look that says  _ you called?  _ Eve rolls her eyes, a gesture already beginning to feel familiar in Villanelle’s presence. 

“What is wrong?” 

“I,” Eve starts slowly, her eyes trained on Villanelle.  _ She’s up to something.  _ “I don’t have any clothes.” 

Villanelle scoffs. To her, at least, in the immediacy of now and the near future, that is the exact opposite of a problem. But Eve isn’t thinking about  _ now _ , she’s thinking about later, when this honeymoon ends and they have to set sail out of here. She does her best to look unimpressed at Villanelle back through the mirror, who puffs out her cheeks before giving a long sigh. 

“Okay,” she says. “If clothes are so important to you, perhaps you should check under the bed? For a surprise.”

Any surprise concocted by Villanelle is bound to be unspeakably dangerous. Eve turns to face her, preferring to be stabbed in the front if it’s going to happen. But Villanelle only looks back at her with a shit-eating grin, the light bouncing off her exposed canines like the glint of a knife. She glances down at the spot under the bed directly beneath her, then back up at Eve. 

Weighing her options, Eve takes a cautious step forward, then another, until she’s standing before Villanelle, who looks up at her, pupils blown, a heady flush settled across her cheeks. She drops to her knees, watches as Villanelle’s gaze follows her and  _ Jesus,  _ is it going to be like this every time from now on? Like Eve’s skin has been replaced with a million shards of lead and Villanelle is the magnet pulling at them all. 

Her hands reach under the bed. The movement puts her mouth level with Villanelle’s tits. She could take one in her mouth now, between her teeth. She remembers the sounds Villanelle made, the wanton, needy gasps, like she would die if Eve stopped to catch her breath. Like she wanted Eve to die, right there, suffocated against her but never pulling away. Under the bed, Eve’s fingers hit something hard. Curious, she drags it out and is met with a familiar looking hardshell suitcase. She recognizes it as the one Villanelle left on her bed. The one she’d left on her bed. Unzipping the top, Eve opens it and finds her own belongings, undisturbed. She looks at them, then back up to Villanelle, who looks unabashedly pleased with herself. Something blossoms in her chest. It makes her feel uneasy. 

“You were in my apartment?” Villanelle shrugs. 

“Uh, yeah?” This is going to be like pulling teeth, Eve knows, but she needs to understand. This is important in ways she has ideas about but needs confirmation. 

“ _ Why _ were you in my apartment?

Villanelle gives another long sigh. 

“Because you had run away and I needed somewhere safe before I could find you again,” she says. “And, because I was thinking about you. I think about you all the time, but I do not, as you say,  _ know  _ you. So I wanted to find out.” 

Eve tries to reconcile those words with the person who pointed a gun at her and pulled the trigger. She finds it alarmingly easy. 

“And it was nice. Until Konstantin barged in.” Eve hears something akin to a record scratch in her brain. 

“I’m sorry, what? Konstantin was in my apartment?” 

Villanelle nods, indignant. 

“Mm yes. Konstantin, that Carolyn Martens, and another one broke in -  _ while I was sleeping -  _ and began going through your things. Very rudely.” Eve smiles, despite herself. 

“As opposed to what you were doing?“ Villanelle gives her an exasperated look. 

“Yes, Eve. That was different.  _ They  _ were not being nice about it. They were not  _ respectful.”  _

Eve swallows.  _ Fuck.  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Carolyn was in her apartment. Obviously they were looking for something. Her eyes trail to the suitcase. She can see her laptop, flash drives, and an external harddrive among the clothes but there were things left behind. She knows it. She feels something creeping around her throat like a noose that’s about to tighten. Bringing a hand up to Villanelle’s cheek, she lets out a long breath. 

“Villanelle,” she says, softly. Villanelle rubs her face against Eve’s palm, obedient. “Villanelle, I need you to concentrate very hard and tell me everything you saw. Can you do that?” 

Villanelle whines, her face suddenly pained. 

“But  _ Eve, _ ” she draws out. “Eve, you are  _ naked.  _ How am I supposed to think about anything else?” 

Eve stands, giving her a serious look. 

“Try.” 

Emboldened, Villanelle scoots closer, reaching out with a greedy hand. Eve stops her with a finger to her lips. 

“Thinking, Villanelle. Try thinking.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest, mustering up a pose she hopes passes for intimidating. Sensing she will get nothing if she doesn’t cooperate, Villanelle’s shoulders slump. 

“Fine. Okay. I got into your apartment. You did not change the lock so it was easy. Like you were asking me to come back. I looked at your photos, touched your snowglobe, then went into your bathroom. I am buying you moisturizer, by the way. Your face deserves better.” 

This is inane, Eve thinks, but the idea of Villanelle in her apartment isn’t a bad one. It makes her feel warm, but is also not the point of this exercise. 

“I laid on your bed. Your shampoo smelled amazing, like being wrapped in a cloud of you,” she grins wolfishly. “I found the scarf, right under your pillow where you sleep. It reminded me of last time. I wrapped it around my hand, reached down into my pants and —” 

“ _ Jesus.  _ Okay, Villanelle,” Eve cuts in. Villanelle looks back at her in mock surprise.

“What? You said, ‘Tell me everything.’ I am only doing what you asked. Anyways, I started to rub —” 

“Okay! Let’s skip to the part where Carolyn and Konstantin show up, please? For sake of expediency.” 

“Oh,” Villanelle replies, innocently. “You should have just said that.” Eve groans. 

“Well, I woke up as they were breaking in. I did not see who did it or how because I was looking for a weapon. You do not have enough weapons in your bedroom, Eve. It is very unsafe for me. Let’s see. The first one I saw was a man I did not recognize, but he looked very scared.” 

Eve swallows. She thinks she knows, needs to know, but doesn’t want to know. 

“What did he look like?” she asks. Villanelle rolls her eyes. 

“I don’t know. He was a man? He looked young. Like an oversized teenager.” 

Kenny, Eve thinks. A surge of anxiety hits. She needs to do something. She starts pacing the room. 

“We need to leave  _ now _ ,” Eve says. She can feel Villanelle’s eyes following her. For a moment she thinks Villanelle will be difficult, but she surprises Eve by nodding, solemnly.

“Yes. We do,” she says. “Eve, there is something else I need to tell you.” 

Eve stops. 

“There is an assassin coming to kill you.” 

Eve’s brain does a hard reset because, what? Haven’t they covered this already?

“Yes,” Eve says slowly. “I know that. You’re right here. In bed. Last night we —” 

“No, Eve,” Villanelle interrupts. “There is a different assassin coming. I took too long and they have sent another. They … really want you dead.” 

Well, Eve thinks. This might qualify as an emergency. 

“Do you know who it is?” 

Villanelle shakes her head. 

“I do not know anyone else. Only Konstantin. It is safer like that. And we only use codenames.” 

“What’s their codename?” 

“Paradelle.” 

Eve laughs, despite herself, because  _ of course  _ an international crime syndicate would find time to be clever about it. 

“What is funny?” Villanelle asks. 

“Paradelle. It’s a form of poetry used to parody, or make fun of, a villanelle.” Villanelle huffs. 

“I do not find that funny  _ at all.”  _

***

Thirty minutes later, they’re winding their way down country roads back toward London after having stolen the car belonging to their AirBnb host. It’s the kind of suburban pensioner’s sedan that’s closer to a boat on four wheels than a car, but whatever, Eve thinks. At least it has heated seats. 

Next to her, Villanelle is humming along to the radio. A new song comes on, a cover of Roxette’s  _ Listen to Your Heart _ , and she perks up at the first few bars, graduating to offkey half-singing and trying to guess the words, despite not even being born when the original came out. She stumbles through the first verse, but by the time she’s cleared the chorus she has the rhythm down, her head nodding to the beat. 

_ Sometimes you wonder if this fight is worthwhile _

Something pulls at Eve’s chest, something warm and molten. She wants to turn the radio off, plunge them into silence. Cut this feeling off at the knees. Or better, she wants to slam on the brakes, send Villanelle’s forehead careening into the dashboard. Shove her unconscious body onto the side of the road and speed away. Her fingers hover over the dial, deciding. 

Instead, she turns it the other way, raising the volume so it swells and fills the cabin. Villanelle turns to her, garbling the next few lines. At least she manages “Listen to your heart” this time. Eve smiles back at her, fondly. 

Villanelle reaches for Eve’s hand on the stick shift, lacing their fingers together. Eve looks at them for a moment, then back at Villanelle, who is still watching Eve but her face has shifted, her eyes wide, nostrils flared. Eve recognizes the expression. It cuts through her like ice. 

Fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ me on Tumblr  
@vaultdweller


	20. Fire to ash, present to past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by Villanelle not understanding what "plans" are, and Eve's blossoming career as a getaway driver.

So caught up she is in the singing and the mood and the buzzy feeling, like she has taken too many sips of a fizzy soda, Villanelle fails to notice the car behind them swing into the oncoming lane. Fails to notice until Eve twines their fingers like strands of a vine Villanelle can feel tightening around her chest, thorns and all. Fails to notice until she  _ has  _ to look at Eve, is so compelled by the moment, and sees, just beyond Eve’s shoulder, the glint of the sun bouncing off the barrel of a pistol through the driver’s side window. 

Eve tenses, seems to sense something is wrong, but Villanelle does not give her the luxury of a warning. She grabs for the steering wheel and pulls. 

With a horrific squeal, the car jerks to the left, straight toward the treeline. Eve slams the brakes and Villanelle can feel the tires stutter under them, trying to find traction but only finding slush, treads useless as they are thrown into a spin. The white landscape blurs around them through the windshield until, next to Villanelle, Eve regains control of the steering wheel and starts to counter, turning into the skid. 

For a moment, they are suspended, hanging weightless in the car’s cabin as time slows, the last few grains of sand slipping through an hourglass. Villanelle is reminded of, after a steep ascent, the second after a plane levels out, where gravity loses its hold and she swears she could let go of her in-flight magazine and have it float in front of her. Her eyes are drawn to Eve, always, even in this ethereal space between dangers, but where she expects to see fear she only finds a kind of stoic calm. 

Then, the wheels catch. 

Wrenched from their suspension, the car jolts to the right now, a sharp change in direction that catches Villanelle’s momentum and slams her into the passenger window. Her head cracks against the glass and, for a beat, everything goes dark and muffled, stars swimming behind her eyes as her stomach flip-flops like she is in one of those spinning teacups, at the mercy of Eve and centrifugal physics. Or, maybe, those are one in the same. 

When Villanelle opens her eyes again the car, mercifully, is stationary, though Villanelle’s equilibrium is still turning like a top. Bringing her fingers up to her brow, she frowns as they come back bloody. Enough to sting but not enough to scar, she hopes. Though, Villanelle considers, Eve seems like the type that likes scars.

Meticulously filing that away for later, Villanelle’s attention is drawn to the sound of crunching tires somewhere behind them. In the passenger mirror, she catches the motion of a car door swinging open, then the sound of heavy footsteps. 

“Eve,” Villanelle says in warning, bloody fingers already digging around in the bag at her feet, searching for her gun. 

“I’ve got it,” Eve says, glancing quickly in the rearview mirror before pulling the gear shift back and dropping her foot on the accelerator. The tires spin on the snow again at first but quickly catch, sending the car into reverse at a decent clip. Before they can react, a black clad figure tumbles over the bumper and onto the rear windshield with a satisfying thump. 

“Whoops,” Villanelle hears Eve deadpan under her breath as she flips the shifter back into place and guns it forward. The assassin rolls of the back of the car, most likely stunned, Villanelle thinks, but probably not severely injured. Eve guides the oversized sedan back onto the road, the ride smoothing out as they roll onto the pavement. 

Fingers still uselessly feeling around in her bag, Villanelle can only stare at Eve, transfixed. At Eve, who dutifully stares at the road and not at Villanelle, as if she had simply backed into a hedge and was now trying to calmly drive away before being caught. It is  _ deeply  _ attractive. 

Eve’s mouth quirks into a cocky smile. 

“Glad you think so.” 

Apparently she had said that part out loud.  _ Oh Eve,  _ Villanelle thinks, internally this time.  _ What are you doing to me? _

Villanelle swallows. At her feet, fingers finally find hard steel. She pulls the pistol out and drops it, discreetly, in the map pocket on the car door. She will need it, she knows, one way or another. 

Head still ringing, Villanelle finds herself missing the music. Instead, she looks over at Eve again. 

“Normally I would offer to drive, but you seem to have it under control,” she remarks, using a tone Eve had earlier described as “insufferable.” Eve chuckles, and Villanelle finds herself mesmerized at the little wrinkles around Eve’s eyes when she smiles, like she is trying to memorize them, memorize the expressions that show she is happy. 

“Yeah, I think I’m good,” Eve replies. “That was, Paradelle, I assume?” 

Villanelle shrugs. 

“Did you recognize her?” Villanelle shakes her head. 

“I did not get a good look at them,” she says, glancing at the rearview mirror, half expecting to see the sleek black car gaining on them again. “You are sure it was a woman?”

“Pretty sure, yeah,” Eve says, biting her lip and frowning. Her brain has suddenly grown loud again. Villanelle can hear it over the six-cylinder engine pushing them well over the speed limit, can hear the whirring and clanking of cogs and gears as her mind works everything over. “And you don’t know who it is?” 

Villanelle shrugs again and goes back to looking out the window and the snow covered landscape whirring past. Whoever it is will reveal themselves, and soon, it seems, regardless of how much they worry about it now. And then Villanelle will kill them. It will be just like a movie. And, as Villanelle knows, the best twists are the ones you do not see coming. 

She grins, her fingers flexing in anticipation. 

They do not have to wait long before the black sedan re-appears behind them, sliding around a banked curve like a wild F-1 driver. Eve swears under her breath and Villanelle is pressed back into her seat as the car accelerates harder, but with so many turns there is only so fast they can go before they have to brake again. Their car turns like a boat, wide and slow, and every time they round a corner they lose a little bit of distance between them and the assassin. 

“I’m not going to be able to lose her,” Eve says, doing a remarkable job of keeping an eye on both the road ahead and car behind at the same time. Villanelle’s mind cycles through possible maneuvers - from slamming on the brakes and forcing a collision, to trying to use the snow again to quickly change direction - but none promise a clean way out. She could always just roll down the window and start shooting … 

“Slow down,” Villanelle says. 

“What?” Eve asks, looking at her. 

“Slow down,” Villanelle repeats. “Let her catch up to us.” 

“And then what?” 

“Then I will see who it is,” Villanelle explains. “And you will lean forward so I can fire my gun through the window at them” 

“Um, I would rather not, actually,” Eve says, rolling her eyes. “Try again, please.” 

But the choice is about to be made for them. Using the last turn to their advantage, the other assassin makes their move, pulling out into the oncoming lane again and inching up alongside Eve and Villanelle. Villanelle can feel their car’s engine straining as Eve puts it through its paces, but Villanelle sees little point in it now. She loops her arm around Eve’s headrest and leans forward, angling for the best vantage point to get a good look at the other driver. She feels Eve suck in a quick breath under her and the temptation to run her lips along Eve’s throat almost too great, even now. Especially now. She can practically feel Eve’s pulse thundering next to her ear. She bites her lip, bringing her other hand up and letting it rest on Eve’s thigh. 

“For leverage,” Villanelle smirks, giving a quick squeeze and delighting in how the car jumps forward. 

“Right,” Eve drawls.

The other car is next to them now, and Eve lets off the accelerator enough to match speeds. Villanelle squints, trying to peer through the windows and glare to get a good look at the driver. It is difficult, but she thinks she can make out a shock of brown hair. 

Wait. 

“No,” Villanelle growls. “It cannot be.” 

But it is. They pass into another heavily wooded stretch, the sun’s glare vanishing and giving Villanelle a clear view of their new assassin friend. 

_ Nadia.  _

Without thinking, Villanelle grabs the wheel again, this time jerking them to the right, toward the other car. Eve manages to get out a quick yelp before they collide, the two cars bouncing off each other once, twice, each trying to nudge the other off the road. Wrestling for control of the wheel, Eve hits the brakes and Villanelle uses the change and speed to her advantage, overpowering Eve and giving the wheel one last sharp turn, sending the nose of their car into other’s back back quarter panel, setting off a messy PIT maneuver that sends them both spinning. 

After several nausea-inducing rotations, they come to a rest in a snowbank backing up into a snow covered field. Everything is eerily quiet, save their heaving breaths. 

“You know, I’m really getting fucking sick of that,” Eve huffs, glaring at Villanelle. About 20 yards behind them, the other car is similarly stuck. Villanelle can see movement in the cabin and knows they do not have time to bicker. 

“Eve,” Villanelle says, fishing her pistol out of the map pocket. “I need you to follow my lead and do as I say.” 

Leaving no room for arguments, Villanelle pointedly exits the car before Eve can deliver an undoubtedly indignant retort, stepping out into the brisk air and rounding the front of the car, boots crunching in the hardening snow. She pulls the driver’s side door open, bends down and sticks the gun in Eve’s general direction. 

“Get out of the car.” 

Eve is silent, staring, her face a mask. Her eyes dart from the gun to Villanelle and back and Villanelle remembers the last time the two of them were like this, a gun between them. Remembers the first time, too. Perhaps there will be a day when they will not need a gun between them. Perhaps Villanelle hopes this is the start of those days. 

But first, they must get through this. 

“Excuse me?” Eve answers, finally. Behind her, Villanelle can hear the other car door slam and the start of heavy footsteps in the snow. 

“Get out of the car,” she repeats, this time with more urgency. 

“Are you out of your mind?” Eve drags each syllable out threefold and Villanelle is practically vibrating because they do. not. have. time. for this and why will Eve just not simply do what she is asked? It is almost, Villanelle thinks, like she does not trust … 

“Do you trust me?” 

Villanelle has seen this moment before, in the movies she watches. In the thick of danger, the big burly man hero reaches his hand out to the lovely lady love interest and shouts, “Do you trust me?” The two of them look at each other, they share a Feeling, and then she nods, takes his hand and they do something exceedingly reckless. 

This, however, is not a movie. 

“Uh, what the fuck? No?” Eve gapes at her.

Villanelle may have … slightly miscalculated. 

“Not even like, 24 hours ago you were trying to kill me and now there’s two of you?” Eve continues on as if oblivious to the approaching assassin. Villanelle knows her window to act is growing exceedingly thin. 

“Who’s to say you’re not both just going to fu—” Reaching into the car, Villanelle clamps a hand over Eve’s mouth, cutting off her tirade. She can feel Eve’s lips still moving under her palm and the slightly tickly vibrations of what is undoubtedly a very angry string of curses. For a second, she looks like she is considering biting Villanelle’s fingers. Villanelle leans further into the car to create the illusion of a struggle, which is not entirely inaccurate, though instead of wrapping her fingers around Eve’s pretty little throat, she lets them drop to cup her jaw, keeping her in control but not in immediate danger. 

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” Villanelle whispers appeasing, trying to approximate soothing. Eve now looks as if she is contemplating headbutting Villanelle, who appreciates her fire but maybe not now, when they are both about to be shot. 

“You are right. You are right! That was not the right thing to say.” Villanelle can count on one hand (finger?) the number of times she has admitted she is wrong, but these circumstances seem to require it. Eve seems to require it.

“What I mean to say is — please, trust me.” 

Eve watches her for a moment, something cloudy passing behind her eyes. Villanelle’s fingers tingle where they touch Eve’s skin, where they are connected. She is searching for something, Villanelle realizes, reading her. Then, the world — or Eve, who right now is taking up Villanelle’s immediate world — snaps into focus for a beat with breathtaking clarity. Rather than a discordant combination of expressions and reactions - a quirk of the lip or fluttering heartbeat - Villanelle is at once seeing the whole. Like stepping back from one of those impressionist paintings, usually so boring to her, and seeing, for the first time, how each stroke comes together to create a scene. Something inside her cracks and reverberates, a great corner of a glacier separating from the whole and falling into the sea. A Feeling is passing between them (like the movies, she thinks excitedly) and Villanelle can sense, with startling lucidity, the Doubt still lurking in Eve’s mind. But, she wants to trust, Villanelle senses, wants to believe, but is needing reassurance. 

“Please,” Villanelle coos, running her thumb along Eve’s lip. She feels the minute press of Eve’s chin into her fingers as she follows the movement. “Trust me. I have a plan.” 

Eve nods, almost imperceptibly, but it is enough. Villanelle drops her hand from Eve’s chin to her arm and  _ pulls,  _ hauling Eve out of the driver’s seat of the car in a manner she - hopes - looks rougher than it is, though Eve still grunts and curses her way through it. Villanelle shifts her grip into a kind of modified headlock, designed to keep Eve under control but minimize discomfort. Her arm crosses over Eve’s clavicle, not quite high enough to rest on her throat and choke her, but just high enough to hopefully keep the other woman quiet. Pressing the barrel of the pistol to Eve’s head, she begins to half-drag Eve, half shuffle over to where Nadia is waiting. 

“What’s your plan?” Eve asks in a stage-whisper, straining to pull her mouth out from behind Villanelle’s arm. 

“To not get shot,” Villanelle shrugs. 

Eve stomps on her foot. 

Nadia, looking comically cliche in all black, stands relaxed a few yards off the side of the road. Far too relaxed for a woman who is about to die, Villanelle thinks, and far too relaxed for someone about to face the woman who has already killed her once before. She raises her gun, almost belatedly, as Villanelle approaches, pointing it at the pair. 

“Hello,  _ Oksana _ ,” she calls, her accent thick, hanging like a cloud in the cold air. Villanelle’s lips curl into a sneer. “So nice to see you again.” 

“Nadia,” Villanelle answers. “I knew you were not bright, but you should know enough to stay dead when someone kills you.” 

Nadia frowns, tightening up her stance and training her pistol on Villanelle. She is trying for fierce, Villanelle thinks, but in all the time she has known Nadia, she has never managed to look like more than just a sad puppy. Good. She wants Nadia angry. 

“Well,” she replies. “You should know enough to make sure you finish a job. But here I am. Here to clean up your” - she waves the pistol between Villanelle and Eve - “mess. It is … oh, what is the word …” 

“Ironic,” Eve yells from underneath Villanelle’s arm. “You’re thinking of ironic.” 

Villanelle jostles Eve slightly, trying to get a hand over her mouth. 

“Yes! Ironic, that is it.” Nadia’s accent trips over the word. “Like the song. I am a black fly in your chardonnay.” 

“That’s not what irony is,” Eve mumbles to herself. Villanelle bites her lip because she is  _ right  _ but also needs to  _ stop speaking _ if they are going to get out of this. 

“Okay,” Villanelle says. “Irony or not, as you can see, I have everything under control.” She hefts Eve so she is in front of her, almost like a human shield, and makes an extra show of pressing the gun into her beautiful hair. “So you can leave now and go back to being dead.” 

“Ah, but that’s not how this works,  _ Oksana,  _ you know that.” Villanelle’s face twitches again at the name, the dead name. As dead as Nadia should be but here she is, rising again, like  _ Oksana.  _ Like a ghost. “My job isn’t done until Eve Polastri is dead. So go on. Do it.” 

Villanelle licks her lips. Pupils dilated, she can sense Nadia’s every movement, every twitch. Her reflexes tense like a string wound too tight around something electric, current coursing through her muscles, through her fingers. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears. She is  _ seething _ , because this is  _ stupid  _ and  _ boring  _ and if the Twelve really wanted her dead surely they could have found someone more competent than Nadia. Surely Nadia was never meant to kill her. Just another loose end thrown in the fire. And end Villanelle left loose, of course. A taunt, then. Turn against us and we will remind you of your weakness. Villanelle hates weakness. Hates staring it in the face. Hates having it wave a gun at her. The hate rises in her chest like a great fire, stoked by every breath Nadia takes, every breath, not earned, but stolen. 

“Do it.” 

In Villanelle’s arms, though, Eve’s breathing is steady. It is centering, the feeling of her ribs expanding and contracting against Villanelle, the fit of their bodies together. She is not afraid. Even with Villanelle holding a gun to her head, even with another assassin threatening them, she is not afraid. She is just breathing. In and out. Across from them, Nadia relaxes her stance, just a fraction, but it is enough of a window to slip a bullet through. In sync with Eve, Villanelle inhales deeply, empties the air from her lungs, and, with a quick flick of her wrist, points the pistol at Nadia and fires. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, now who is going to take one for the team and write a Killing Eve - Fast and the Furious AU?  
Also I really like the idea of Villanelle thinking her own plot twist is lame.


	21. Unknown, talk to unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another two-part chapter, because we have Eve doing some big things coming up, but also because we needed to have a TALK and it was all becoming just way too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by talking conversations out in the shower

The gunshot, the mini explosion of firing pin igniting gunpowder, reverberates through Eve’s skull with such force that, for a moment, she’s not convinced Villanelle hasn’t put a bullet in her head too. 

Across from her, Nadia collapses backward into the snow. She falls with her arms relaxed at her sides, utterly and eerily still. She could be a snow angel, Eve thinks. Laying on her back, mouth open, tongue stuck out, trying to catch softly falling snowflakes like a child. Until Villanelle, standing directly over her, fires again, delivering another bullet into Nadia’s skull. Her ears still ringing, Eve can’t hear the shot but she feels it, somehow, course through her body like a current. She flinches as Villanelle pulls the trigger, like a hammer hitting a nerve. 

Eve has seen dead bodies, okay? She’s spent hundreds of hours hunched over photographs, studying gruesome crime scenes and bloody aftermaths of suicide bombers. She  _ likes  _ it. Not that people are dead, no, but the story they tell in their death. What they leave behind. And how a person can go from moving and breathing and being  _ alive  _ one moment to the absolute stillness of death. 

But it’s that  _ moment,  _ that transition, that conversion from person to body, where Eve’s knowledge gap stretches like a chasm. She finds herself dangling over it, each exposure — Amber, Nadia, how many more? — pushing her closer to the edge. She feels her toes digging into the sand now, feels it buckling under her weight. 

Villanelle lives in that moment. Speaks its language. Takes it to bed and curls up with it like a comforting blanket. Wears it like a second skin. On Villanelle, it looks natural. Eve isn’t so sure how it will look on her. 

Her fingers start cramping and it’s only then that Eve realizes she, too, is sitting in the snow, fists buried in a snowbank, ass long gone numb from the cold. A near mirror to Nadia. Except one of them can choose to stand and leave and the other had that choice made for them. 

“Are you coming?” Villanelle, finished rummaging through Nadia’s pockets, looks up at her, a cocky smile playing at her lips. With the sun in her honey-blonde hair, she looks every bit the lioness crouched over a kill. Like there should be blood smeared across her face. 

“Yeah,” Eve murmurs, scrambling to her feet. She brushes the snow off her ass as best she can and, the ringing in her ears at least partially subsided for now, makes her way over. Villanelle watches her for a long beat. Eve feels her eyes roam until, apparently satisfied that Eve isn’t actually injured, she abruptly stands, turning to Nadia’s car still parked a few yards away. 

Eve doesn’t follow, though. She stands, frozen, in front of Nadia. Unable to move, unable to look away. 

The blood pools around Nadia’s head like an angel’s halo. Eve’s stomach turns, but only once. 

“There will be a cleanup crew coming soon,” Villanelle says, appearing suddenly behind her. “We have to go. I like her car better, so we will take it.” 

“Are you going to drive?” 

“Eve,” Villanelle admonishes, somehow managing to look affronted in all this. “I have just  _ shot  _ a woman. And you want me to  _ drive?”  _

She tosses the keys over her shoulder as she slinks away back toward the car. Eve manages to snatch them effortlessly out of the air in a move that almost looks cool.  _ What a pair we make,  _ Eve thinks.  _ What a pair.  _

Eve would never admit it, but Villanelle is right — Nadia’s car is objectively way better. The slick German sedan hums to life as she presses the starter button. The dashboard’s massive screen lights up with a huge sat nav map and the heaters in Eve’s seat automatically kick on. 

“God, no wonder people who drive Audis are such assholes,” Eve says, nearly giddy as she turns a dial to “sport” mode. 

“Is that not what we are?” Villanelle asks, sliding on a pair of sunglasses dug out of the center console. “A couple of arseholes?” 

“Hell fucking yeah,” Eve affirms, punching the accelerator. 

That exuberance carries them through the first 10 minutes of their journey back to London, but the vibrations of the car and feel of the transmission shifting under her lull Eve right back into her own mind. Where Villanelle is hunched over Nadia but looking back at Eve, her eyes wide and glassy, not with tears, but something more metallic. Mercury, maybe, rising to the surface, expanding with the heat of a kill. Is this her life now, Eve wonders, that in-between space between living and dead? Is this what she wanted? 

“Your brain is loud again,” Villanelle remarks, eyeing her over the rim of her sunglasses. She looks, worried? But only mildly so. Like they are an old married couple about to have the same fight for the hundredth time. It sparks at something in Eve, the part that tried for so long to do what was expected, be what was expected. The part that now wants to tear apart its own skin. 

“You shot her,” Eve says. Her eyes are on the road, now, and she’s trying so hard to see the pavement and painted lines whirring past and not Nadia’s face sunken in by a bullet. 

“Yes,” Villanelle answers. As loud as Eve’s brain is, Villanelle’s seems to be perfectly empty, a canvas carefully blank, ready to react to what it is given. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I do not understand the question.” 

Eve sighs, then bites her lip because  _ why would this be easy? _

“How did you know? To shoot her?” 

Villanelle’s head tilts just a fraction, a physical manifestation of Eve throwing a switch and changing tracks on this conversation train. Like she’s trying to get a better angle on the words. Now it’s her brain turning and Eve gets a sense that no one has asked this before, has wanted to know. 

“I have found that,” Villanelle starts, slowly. “In those situations, the person who hesitates dies.” 

_ And I was not going to hesitate.  _ Eve spares a look over to Villanelle, who is watching through the sunglasses now, leaving her expression largely unreadable. But she seems hesitant. Eve can practically hear the walls start to go up, brick by brick. 

“Why are you asking?” 

“Because,” Eve says. “All signs point to this being my life now. And if this is my life now, I should probably learn the rules.” 

Humming in agreement, Villanelle sinks back into her plush leather seat, turning her head slightly to, presumably, watch the decidedly boring scenery whip by. 

Learning the rules, of course, is not the same as accepting them, Eve thinks. As playing by them. Could she, she wonders, shoot first if needed, without sorting through every single ‘what if?’ Because right now Eve feels like her brain is tying itself into knots with the threads of possibility, wondering how Villanelle could just cut through them all without examining each individual one to see where it leads. What if they talked to Nadia? Convinced her to join their side? What if they just let her go? Threatened her until she was too afraid to tangle with them? What if they found a way to knock her out and leave her on the side of the road - pissed, sure, but still alive? 

But as Eve separates out each individual thread, each path, she realizes quickly that none stay individual, but instead branch off, like the heads of a Hydra, into multiples, bringing Eve deeper and deeper into uncertainty. They take on Nadia, and then what? Eve has to protect her AND Villanelle? Villanelle, by nature, makes literally nothing easy, and Nadia didn’t seem particularly adept. And what if she turned on them? Brought the entirety of the Twelve bursting through their front door? 

Is it possible that Villanelle, in all her disorganized impatience, her insufferable bravado, had the right idea? To skip all that indecision and deliver the one, startling and stark truth in life guaranteed to bring an end to all things — death, in the form of a bullet. Could killing a person be the best possible outcome? Most people would say no. But Eve has known for a while now that she’s not like most people and maybe it’s time to reconcile with that. 

“I thought Nadia was dead,” Eve states, rather belatedly, as Nadia is in fact very much dead in a snowbank right now. Beside her, Villanelle lets out a long, low, dramatic sigh. She eyes the door handle and Eve thinks for a second she might be contemplating opening it and rolling out onto the pavement to escape this conversation, is kept in place solely by the slim luxury of soft leather and heated seats. 

“Yes,” Villanelle grumbles. “I did as well. Turns out, not. Funny how that happens.” 

“Funny, yeah,” Eve replies. “Remind me, how does that happen?” 

Groaning this time, Villanelle reaches under her seat for the reclining level to eject herself out of Eve’s immediate eyeline and the conversation. The effect isn’t as showy as she’d like, the fully automatic seats producing more of a gradual lowering than an immediate drop, and Eve has to bite her cheeks to keep herself from smiling at the petulence. 

“Ugh, fine. Yes. Okay,” Villanelle responds, defeated. “Nadia and I have a … history. We were in the same prison together, in Russia. Even then she did not know what was good for her. Would not stop talking about how she was getting out. How a man was coming to take her away.” 

“And you, being you, heard that and thought, ‘Here’s my chance.’ Right?” 

“Yes, Eve, you know me so well,” Villanelle smiles. She sighs again and Eve almost takes pity on her. Villanelle isn’t the type for meaningful reflection of any kind, Eve thinks, especially when it comes to the past, to things already over and settled. But Eve isn’t in a pitying mood. She just watched a woman die - again - at the hands of Villanelle. The least the other woman can do is answer a few questions. 

“Anyways, I got,” she pauses. “Close. To her. And when the day came that Konstantin was coming to get her, I made sure she could not come. That I was there instead and that he took me.” 

Throughout the telling of the story, Eve watches out of the corner of her eye as Villanelle’s face, her expression, shifts. Morphing from petulant child, with round eyes and pouting lips, into something hard, edges sharp, as cold and unfeeling as ice. It reminds Eve of a wolf in the dark, eyes shining, the shape familiar but underneath, something wholly wild and cruel. Eve’s mouth goes dry at the sight of it, at how the wild in Villanelle speaks to something wild in her, too. 

“They went back for her eventually,” Villanelle continues. “It was good for her, I think, the wait. If she had been given my job, she would have been dead,” She snaps her fingers. “Like that. Nadia did not have the mind, for what I do. She was not built for it. She was like a lost little girl. Like, what is it — Little Red Riding Hood? But I? I am the wolf. 

“They put us on a job together, but she did not stick to my plan and we were compromised,” she says with finality. “And I killed her. But … I did not finish. The wound was fatal. It would kill her, but …” 

“But you gave her a chance,” Eve finishes. Villanelle shrugs, her lip curling slightly. “Why?” 

“It is … it was, complicated,” she says. Then, softer. “It was a feeling I did not understand.”

“Was it because you saw yourself in her?” Eve pushes, the criminology major in her borderline salivating at the thought of deconstructing this moment, of cracking Villanelle’s mind open to sift through. “Imagined how you would feel, in her situation? Or how easily it could have been you?”

Instead, Villanelle pulls a face and turns back toward the window. 

“I did not want to think too much about it,” she says, flippant. Crushing profiler-Eve’s dreams under her heel. “I always thought the bosses, the Twelve, as you say, were angry with me because I killed Nadia. But now, I realize maybe -” 

“It was because you didn’t?” Eve finishes. Villanelle hums in agreement. 

“Cleaning up that mess. Keeping her quiet. Keeping us separate,” Villanelle tuts. “I caused them a lot of trouble.” 

“No way,” Eve gapes at her in mock surprise. “You? Causing trouble? I don’t believe it.” 

“You do not believe I would cause trouble?” Eve chances a look over to Villanelle. She can see herself reflected in Villanelle’s sunglasses. It is … not flattering. 

“I have known you for -” Eve tries to quickly do the math in her head but gives up once she realizes her interview with the New York Times, her apartment burning down  _ and  _ Amber dying all happened in  _ one day  _ \- “an alarmingly short amount of time. And all you’ve done in that entire time is cause trouble. Which, frankly, is a pretty mild way of putting it.” 

“Oh?” Villanelle responds. “Have I caused trouble for you?”

Eve coughs out a laugh. 

“Uh, yeah,” she says. “Big trouble.” 

“Hmmm,” Villanelle purrs, taking one of Eve’s hands from its place on the steering wheel and dragging her lips lightly along each knuckle. “Tell me about this big trouble.” 

“No way,” Eve says, snatching her hand back. “I am not stroking your ego any more.” 

Villanelle opens her mouth to banter back but seems to think better of it. Eve watches as something comes over her face, like a cloud suddenly blocking out the sun, leaving her dark and cold. She sits fully back into her seat, arms crossed. Eventually she mumbles something practically into her own chest, so soft Eve nearly misses it happening at all. 

“What was that?” 

“I said,” Villanelle starts, louder and more surly now. “Do you trust me?”

_ Oh, _ Eve thinks.  _ She wants to have that conversation? _ Eve takes a breath, both to steady herself and buy some time. Because that? That is a  _ question.  _ And if she’s honest with herself, she has been more honest with Villanelle than she has with … nearly anyone. Especially as of late. But is that trust? Or early onset insanity? Or perhaps some kind of death wish? But Villanelle is looking at her now, expectant, and Eve has to cut off her running internal commentary before it becomes running external commentary and someone gets hurt. 

“I trust that, deep down, you want to kill me,” Eve answers, truthfully. “But also fuck me? And that those are probably connected. But ultimately, I trust you to want to kill me.” 

Leaning in, Villanelle slides her sunglasses off her face. Eve turns to look at her quickly and is startled, both by her proximity but also by her eyes, bright and shining. Like after she killed Nadia. Like after Eve held her at gunpoint in her apartment. Like after she pointed a pistol at Eve and pulled the trigger. Eve swears she can see a whole galaxy there, behind them, shimmering pinpricks of light against the dark, crushing vacuum of space. 

“And what if,” Villanelle says, licking her lips. “What if I do not want to kill you?” 

The air goes out of the car and Eve feels like she’s the one in space, now, gravity bottoming out underneath her because there’s that phrase again. What if? What if there was space to build themselves around, not this admittedly fucked up assassin dynamic, but something else? Something substantial? Eve regards Villanelle, the soft pink of her lips, the triangle of freckles at the corner of her left eye. The way their bodies felt tangled together in the sheets like the twisting roots of a tree. Is that something she could want? 

“Well,” Eve says, finally. “Then we would need to talk about that.” She eyes the clock on the car’s dashboard. They’re still at least an hour out from the outskirts of London. “Not right now, though. I think we’ve hit our quota for deep conversation. What do you think?” 

“Oh, thank god!” Villanelle groans, fitting her sunglasses back over her eyes. “I thought it would never end! I will find us some music.” 

Villanelle fiddles with the radio, settling on a station that seems to be, inexplicably, playing only national anthems. Wiggling her shoulders a bit, she makes like she’s settling into her seat, like she’s getting comfortable. After a few moments, she reaches for Eve’s hand again, tugging it closer to her and letting it rest on the top of her thigh. Eve smiles at her, but makes no move to lace their fingers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a huge shoutout to the folks who have been sharing this fic and talking about it on Twitter. I SEE YOU. I'm not on Twitter for reasons but I have seen the threads and read them and I love you all. You can also @ me on Tumblr @vaultdweller


	22. I could tell you but I'd have to kill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ho boy the world has changed a lot since the last update  
I truly meant to update this sooner, but between a family death, traveling, being sick and my job ratcheting up to 15 with coronavirus, I've only had time to pluck about 100 words at a time. I hope to be back on a weekly update schedule after this

They ditch the Audi at a Sainsbury’s on the outer fringes of London, far enough away that it will take a little while for it to be noticed, and duck into the nearest metro station. Villanelle is wearing an absolutely dreadful baseball cap she fished out of the car’s back seat and when it makes the tips of her ears stick out at a goofy angle Eve can’t help but laugh at her, though she refrains from calling her “Dumbo.” Villanelle huffs and sticks her tongue out but there’s humor playing around her eyes. Eve opts for the reliable jacket hood to hide her face from the CCTV cameras. She’d tried to pull her hair up to further her disguise but the resulting whine from Villanelle was so high pitched it threatened to attract every dog in a 10km radius and she dropped the effort. 

Thanks to the odd hour and distance from central London, the underground station is nearly deserted and when the train arrives, Eve takes the very last car for herself, Villanelle following cooly behind her, slipping in just as the doors start to close. They post up on opposite ends of the car — Villanelle slumped in a forward-facing seat, legs carelessly spread wide and looking disinterested out the window, Eve standing near the door, clutching the rail, her luggage at her feet. They look ridiculous, Eve thinks. Like an old married couple trying to spice things up by role playing their first date. 

The train lurches forward into the tunnel, the darkness outside and flickering overhead light inside bringing Eve face-to-face with her old nemesis — her reflection. She stares back at herself, tipping her chin back to let the hood slip down. She's struck by how her features catch the light, shadows cutting across her eyes and cheeks where they hadn't been before. She blinks, then Villanelle is behind her, emerging from the blackness to slot her body against Eve’s, her stare - or the reflection of it - looking back at Eve like twin high beams in the night. 

“Take the fucking hat off,” Eve tells Villanelle’s reflection. She can feel Villanelle’s hands, one playing at her hip, the other tugging at her jacket. In the window, Villanelle’s reflection pouts. 

“I kind of like it.” 

“Take it off,” Eve growls. The hand on her shoulder darts up at once and knocks away the hat, sending blonde hair spilling over Villanelle’s shoulders. Eve watches, transfixed. She thinks, for a moment, of Rapunzel letting out her long locks, then laughs to herself at the idea of someone locking Villanelle away in a tower. 

As harsh and jarring as Eve finds the light on her own features, somehow, Villanelle seems softer. She could be any 26-year-old commuting home from her first real job out of uni, Eve thinks. And here, in this reflection, she could be any 46-year-old. Perhaps, in this empty train car, the sound of wheels on the tracks pulsing below them like a metronome, perhaps they are no longer a trained killer and an MI6 agent. Perhaps they are just Villanelle and Eve, two trees falling in a forest, not making a sound.

Eve can feel imaginary fingers clutching around that dream, crushing it like a baby bird held too tight. She wants to scold herself for wanting it, for wanting to stay here in the reflection forever, the both of them. For wanting the train car to come unattached, the rest of the world speeding ahead as they’re left behind in this dark metro tunnel. 

Her shoulder jerks back as Villanelle tugs at her jacket. She watches as her neck is exposed, Villanelle’s lips dragging along skin. Feels every nerve stand at attention. Villanelle’s eyes, dark now, catch hers in the window reflection. She waits for it, the pain of impossibly sharp canines plunging into her throat, puncturing her windpipe, suffocating her the way a tiger suffocates an antelope, but it doesn’t come. It doesn’t come. In its place is the tickle of feather light kisses peppering up her neck, the heady wet heat of a tongue coming up to curl around her earlobe. Eve watches in the window as her mouth opens and she whines into the feeling. The sound of it startles her, as if, for a moment, she’d forgotten her real body. As if she’d slipped out of her physical existence and into the liminal realm of her silent reflection. 

Villanelle hums against her ear, drawing her attention back. Closing her eyes, Eve presses herself into Villanelle, against the curve of her. She’s dizzy with the weightlessness of hurtling through tunnel after tunnel while standing still, all of London whizzing by while the two of them wrap themselves around each other. 

Tugging at her hips, Villanelle turns Eve to face her, pushing her against the railing. When Eve opens her eyes again, they’re barely a breath apart, Villanelle’s eyes boring into her own. Then, as one, they look toward the window, at their reflections regarding them. They hold for a beat, taking in the infinite possibilities held by glass panels before them. Villanelle blinks first, biting her lip before Eve reaches up, crashing their lips together like two sides of a fault line. 

There’s no space between them now. In the crushing vacuum of this empty train car, they’re two stars burning bright, leashed by their own gravity. Villanelle’s mouth is hot against Eve’s lips, her stomach flat against Eve’s palms, her chest heaving against Eve’s fingertips. Her own fingers thread through Eve’s hair with such reverence, such careful worship, like she should be on her knees before Eve. It makes Eve want to cradle Villanelle and suffocate her all at once, so intoxicated she is with that power. Instead, she rolls her hips against Villanelle’s, soaking in the other woman’s delicate, desperate sighs. 

A change in speed sends Eve slightly off balance, leaning into Villanelle’s sturdy frame. They’re approaching a station. The world around them goes black again as the train descends underground, everything around them becoming slower, sharper, more focused.

Then, the train jerks to a stop, sending Villanelle nearly tumbling into Eve before catching herself on the railing. She laughs lightly against Eve’s throat, mumbling a quiet “that was close” even as her fingers are dancing up Eve’s shirt. The lights flicker once, twice, then plunge them into darkness, the whirling hum of power giving way to silence. Eve stiffens. 

“Wha-”

“Shhh,” Villanelle coos. Eve feels it against her, feels the vibrations more than she hears and when she opens her mouth to sharply protest she finds it otherwise occupied with Villanelle’s lips and tongue. In the dark, Villanelle is everywhere, filling the spaces, the gaps and valleys like a vapor. 

“I will see you soon, yes?” Villanelle murmurs against Eve’s lips, and before Eve can even process words and their meaning and string them together the lights flip on in a dizzying burst. Blinded, Eve rubs at her eyes with an “ah fuck” and recoils, the train car jolting back to life. Squinting through her fingers, she finds herself alone, Villanelle having somehow vanished, not even her stupid hat left behind as a reminder that she was ever there to begin with. 

“What the fuck,” Eve exhales. In front of her, the train doors slide open and hold, waiting for passengers. None come. And when the doors close, Eve faces herself in the window, two halves becoming whole. Swallowing, Eve squats down, swaying a bit as the train departs the station. Willing her fingers to stop shaking, she yanks at the zipper of her suitcase, plunging her hand in when it’s big enough to root around until her fingers find a narrow suede pouch. Her breath catches as fingertips run along smooth leather, pressing hard until she feels a pricking pain - the tip of a syringe. Snatching it out of her suitcase, Eve stands quickly, facing forward, holding the pouch before her with two hands. Beholding it. Licking her lips, she uses her right thumb to undo the button at the top, tipping the pouch up slightly to let the syringe slide out and onto her palm. 

She’d nicked it from Villanelle’s purse while the other woman showered. Not that she’d been snooping. Okay, yes, she’d been snooping, but when someone shows up at your AirBnb/hideout with every intention of killing you, you reserve the right to snoop. It was easy enough for Eve to swap her reading glasses for the syringe in the suede pouch and if Villanelle noticed, she didn’t say anything. Careful not to let the tip catch her, Eve turns the syringe over in her palm, examining again the crudely taped and scribbled label: Ketalar. Ketamine. Enough, Eve estimates, to knock someone out for about 30 minutes without causing lasting damage. 

The train car shudders, rocking back and forth as they enter another station. It’s Eve’s stop. Or what used to be her stop, in what used to be her life. She feels the reflexes, the strings of her old life tugging at her, to step off the train and onto the platform. The memory of it burns cold, the way scalding hot water feels as it rushes through her fingers. She can’t keep it from rushing through anymore. There’s too many gaps. Too many cracks. 

The doors open, hold, then close. Eve doesn’t get off. Instead, she fits the syringe back into its pouch and calmly drops it into her jacket pocket. From the window, her reflection watches, a twisted grin on its lips. Eve swears she can see cracks in its face, big, gaping fissures, but instead of light pouring through, there’s only an infinite lacuna of blackness. She steps toward it, a tiny, half-foot but it brings her practically nose-to-nose with the undoubtedly unsanitary window. 

_ Wear it down,  _ Villanelle says, somewhere in her memory. That first time, in the bathroom. When Villanelle was Julie Michaels, with catlike eyes and cleavage that, Eve can confirm, is pretty fucking great. Back when she was just a whistleblower with her nose where it didn’t belong and Villanelle was just an assassin trying to do her job. When they were hunter and hunted. It was easier then, Eve thinks, their roles neat and tidy. They’d smudged them too much since, like a hand rubbed over wet ink, and a thousand brush strokes in the opposite direction would never put those lines back where they were. Because, if Eve’s honest with herself, they were never where she thought they were in the first place. She and Villanelle were both being equally manipulated, like puppets on a string, Carolyn and Konstantin each working their cross-shaped controls overhead. 

And Kenny …

Eve inhales. Eying her reflection, she brings her hands up to her face, then back, smoothing along her hair. Gathering it, part by part, she pulls it taut, wrestling it back to tie into a bun so tight the roots ache. Her face stands out against the shadows now, skin sharply contrasting against the darkness. She tilts her head from side to side, examining the hard edge of her features, almost austere in their severity. Staring at her reflection, it’s almost like looking at another person, someone Eve doesn’t recognize but who was there all along, a part of herself long dormant. There’s something wild about her, this new part of Eve. Like she’s capable of anything and knows it. 

The light overhead wavers, then strobes. Eve blinks. The face looking back isn’t her own, but Villanelle’s, the endless, empty stare from when she had a knife pressed to Eve’s throat. The light strobes again and the reflection morphs back to Eve. With each flicker of the light, the reflection alternates between Eve and Villanelle, faster and faster, like a flip book or the corner of a deck of cards, until the change is so quick, the two of them so melded, Eve can’t tell the difference, her features slotting into Villanelle’s, her mind slotting into Villanelle’s mind. 

The doors open again, pulling the reflection apart. Eve isn’t sure who the roulette landed on. It doesn’t matter. She steps off onto the platform and heads for the escalator. 

*****

Hauling her ass up 10 flights of stairs while carrying a suitcase was a predictable, yet seemingly Sisyphean hardship, reminding Eve that, if this is her life now, she really needs to take up jogging or something. Or at least start with power walking. Maybe with some weights. By the third floor she’s already broken a sweat and by the time she reaches the floor she needs she’s sucking some real wind. Catching her breath against the wall, she has a fleeting thought that Villanelle would be able to take these stairs with ease. In fact, she’d probably just use a drainpipe or fire escape to scale the building. Well good for fucking her, Eve thinks. We can’t all be 26 and trained assassins, because that would actually be terrible. A world full of Villanalles. Eve shudders at the thought. 

The stairs were an awful but necessary endeavor, as the high rise had security cameras in each elevator. Eve remembers taking note of them while riding up after an MI6 Christmas party one year, tipsy enough that her fingertips were numb and she couldn’t stop thinking of all the things those security cameras had seen. Like her face. But only once. There were probably cameras in the stairwell too, or at least one camera, but it’s easier to pull a hood up to cover your face here. And besides, they were going to find her. That was a given. She just didn’t need to make it easy. 

Footsteps on the other side of the wall interrupt Eve’s heaving session. Pulling out her phone, she holds it to her ear, grabs the handle of her luggage and takes a deep, calming breath. It’s showtime. 

Right on cue, the stairwell door opens and out walks a young couple.

“Yes, Julie, I caught a flight home from Paris and I’m just about to walk in the door. Order me some takeout, won’t you?” Eve rambles into the phone, moving to try and sneak by the couple. Seeing Eve has her hands full, the woman doubles back and holds the door, holding it open for Eve, who mouths a quick “thank you” and slips into the hallway. 

With its dizzying carpet pattern, the hallway stretches out before Eve. It reminds her of a funhouse, or something out of The Shining. She halfway expects it to twist and tilt as she makes her way down and around the corner. Or for someone to reach out from one of the closed doors and grab her as she walks by to shake her. Ask her if she’s sure about her intentions, the way a computer program asks if you’re sure you want to quit. But it never comes, and standing before the door, Eve learns a terrifying truth: that in life, there are no real alarm bells, no failsafes. Free will means the freedom to make the terrible choice with the same part of her brain that could make the peaceful one. That within everyone, there is the potential to hurt. To kill. 

Eve knocks. 

From inside, she hears shuffling, but no one moves toward the door. Unsurprised, and undeterred, she knocks again, knuckles rapping against the wood hard enough to sting, throwing some urgency behind it. She keeps at it until she hears the click of a deadbolt unlatching and the door cracks open, but only just a bit. 

“Please let me in,” she says, right now to no one, as the person on the other side of the door hasn’t actually shown their face. Immediately the door shuts with enough force to generate a small breeze. She’s about to resume her assault on the door but the sliding rattle of a chain being undone stops her. Then, the door swings open, wider this time, and before her stands Kenny, looking like he’d just returned from the gym in ridiculous shorts that show off his boyish knees. 

“You can’t be here,” he says, matter-of-factly, as if with that one sentence he could banish her from his doorstep. As if speaking it would make it so. Eve rolls her eyes. 

“Kenny, let me in,” she repeats. 

“You can’t be here,” he repeats back, looking up and down the hallway, like he’s worried someone might see.  _ This is getting tedious _ , Eve thinks. She shoots out a hand, bracing to hold the door open if he tries closing it in her face. 

“Kenny, the quicker you let me in, the quicker I won’t be here anymore.” 

He watches her for a moment. Eve holds his stare, sending him serious  _ I’m-not-going-anywhere- _ vibes. She knows Kenny, has worked with him long enough to understand that while he puts up a big front, it’s all fluff. Eventually he relents, she thinks, sadly. Eventually he relents. 

After having clearly weighed his options, Kenny nods once, moving aside to let Eve through. She wheels her luggage into the foyer while he shuts and re-locks the door before heading down the hallway. Steeling herself, Eve follows him deeper into the apartment. 

“This is incredibly dangerous,” he throws over his shoulder as he enters the galley kitchen, opening the cabinet and grabbing a glass before turning on the tap to fill it.  _ For you or me?  _ Eve wants to ask as she lingers in the threshold, watching him fear-chug his glass of water. The answer is obvious. It’s both. For Eve, because Kenny is working against her with Carolyn and Konstantin. And for Kenny because, well, he just let someone who knows he double-crossed her into his apartment. The syringe sits heavy in Eve’s pocket, like a brick. 

“Hasn’t it always been?” Eve answers, instead. 

“Yes, well, the stakes are a lot higher now. Especially with the story hitting the papers,” he says. Had it hit the papers already? Eve hadn’t even checked. Hadn’t had time. Amazing, she thinks, how you can topple a house of cards and not even feel a breeze.

“You did the right thing,” Kenny continues. He’s nervous, Eve can tell by the way he’s fiddling with his glass. Like he’d rather be typing this out. In-person interaction had never been his strong suit. Turning up like this, out-of-the-blue, would leave him off balance, Eve knew. 

“But.” He stops. He looks at her, pained. Eve swallows, the nods, gently. Urging him along. “But I can’t keep helping you.” 

“I know,” Eve says, her tone understanding. 

“They know,” Kenny says. “They know a lot. And they’re angry. They’re going to try and trap you.” 

_ Is he trying to help me? _ Eve wonders. She fingers the pouch in her pocket, flicking the button at the top as her brain turns over and whirls, trying to fit everything together. 

“I’ve done my best to slow them down, to confuse them,” he continues. “But there’s only so much I can do. They know I was helping you. They’re using it as leverage.” 

“You won’t have the worry about that,” Eve replies. She points to her luggage. “You’re right, it’s all become way too dangerous. I mean, I have assassins breaking into my house on, like, a somewhat regular basis now. I need to get out of here. I want to get out of here. But.” 

She pauses. Then - 

“But I need your help one more time first.” 

Kenny, for his part, looks like he’s about to cry.  _ You poor child,  _ Eve thinks.  _ No better off than the rest of us. At the mercy of things larger than you. _

“But I just —” 

“I know what you said,” Eve snaps, cutting him off. “But hear me out. Please? Look,  _ I  _ just said I’m  _ trying  _ to leave. But I’m sure by now I’m on like, a million no-fly lists, right? Probably couldn’t even get through security to buy a coffee, nevermind step on a plane.” 

Kenny sighs, then nods. 

“You get me off the no-fly list, though, and I’m gone. What’ll it take, 30 seconds?” 

“I mean, no. Probably more like —” 

“Whatever,” Eve interjects, holding up a hand. “Point is, that’s all it takes. Get me off the list and I’m not your problem anymore. I’m somewhere far, far away. Probably being a big pain in someone else’s ass. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

Kenny watches her again. She’s made a compelling argument, Eve thinks. Obviously. But Kenny? Kenny can be tricky. Usually, though, he responds to whoever in front of him is showing the most force…

“Alright,” he says, finally. “But watch out for the CCTV, yeah?” 

“The advantages of having huge hair,” Eve says, smiling. “It can keep a secret.” 

Nodding, Kenny turns, gesturing for Eve to follow him through the kitchen and into the living room, where his laptop is already set up on a makeshift desk that looks like it was nicked from the children’s section of IKEA. The whole apartment, cobbled together as it is, reeks of ‘bachelor’ but considering how much time Kenny spends with his nose buried in a computer, she figures he would hardly notice. 

Sitting down in a rolling office chair, he starts typing. Eve watches him enter his credentials into about four different log-in screens before, at last, gaining access to the MI6 remote database. 

“So,” Kenny says, his fingers a blur over the keyboard. “Where are you thinking of going?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Eve replies, working the syringe out of its pouch in her pocket. “I was thinking maybe Alaska…” 

“Alaska?” Kenny asks, pausing for a moment. 

“Yeah,” Eve says, her fingers sliding into place, thumb on the plunger. “Nice and remote, you know? Lots of space. No one to bother me.” 

“I guess I didn’t think of you as the type to be into chopping firewood,” Kenny chuckles, moving to resume typing. 

“Hey, I’m probably pretty good with an ax,” Eve retorts. 

She swallows. The world goes slow for a moment, but bright and clear. Like she’s wide awake and feeling  _ everything.  _ She can see every vein in Kenny’s neck, can make out each tendon and ligament. God, she swears she can feel his heart beating in her own chest, can sense the heat where his blood flows near the surface. It strikes a primal chord in her and she wonders if this is how Villanelle feels. Like a snake coiled in a leaf pile, watching, tasting the unsuspecting mouse. Waiting to sink its fangs in. Waiting to feel it struggle and die in her mouth. 

It’s time. 

She strikes, faster than she thought she could move, the needle hitting home in the cord of muscle where the neck and shoulder meet. Eve’s no medical professional but she’s sure she’s far enough away from anything vital. Careful not to break the tip off the syringe, she wraps her left arm around Kenny’s mouth, using the chair wheels and her leverage to roll him back away from the laptop. Kenny struggles against her, but is too torn between trying to throw her off and trying close out of the MI6 database to be effective at either and ends up just pawing uselessly at the arm around his face. The syringe empties quickly and Eve drops it back into her pocket, using her now free hand to further hold Kenny still, but the harder he fights the faster his heart beats, and the faster the ketamine runs through his system. After a handful of seconds, his breathing slows, his movement becomes mushy and soon his head lolls back against the headrest of the chair. 

Releasing Kenny, Eve springs forward, running her finger over the trackpad of the laptop, keeping it from going idle. Then, turning back to Kenny, she grabs the collar of his shirt, heaving him up and lowering him onto the floor as gently as she can, rolling him onto his side in case he gets sick before plopping herself down in his seat and sliding the chair up to the desk. 

Grabbing the EncryptStick out of her luggage, Eve plugs it into the laptop’s USB port and enters her own credentials. It’s traceable, yes, but Eve figures she isn’t going for discretion here. They’ll know it’s her once they find Kenny, the trick is staying far enough ahead that she doesn’t get caught. 

Navigating through the database without a clear direction, Eve goes for the Supermarket Sweep approach, pulling as much as she can find onto the stick to sort out later. Scanning quickly through reports, she grabs anything with keywords and codenames she recognizes as being part of the prison-building scheme, anything that looks like it might trace back to cooperation with outside groups, and anything regarding payments to these outside groups. She doesn’t need the whole picture, just enough to get the lines down. The rest she can fill in later. 

Behind her, Kenny groans once, then is silent. Checking the time, Eve knows she has about 10 minutes before he seriously starts to rouse. Unplugging the laptop, Eve stands, letting the chair roll back slightly and bump Kenny’s foot. Taking a breath, she closes the computer, picks it up, and heads back to the kitchen, where she puts a stopper in the sink and flips on the tap. 

With the sink filling, Eve’s eyes trail back to Kenny, pathetic and prone on the floor. It would be easy, she thinks, to kill him like this. Before all this, Eve never considered herself the type to be able to pull a trigger, to plunge a knife blade through flesh. It seemed messy and difficult and active. Fighting against the other person’s will to live. Was she strong enough to choose that for them? To choose death for them? 

But here was Kenny, drugged and knocked out, looking mostly dead already. It wouldn’t be hard. A pillow over the face. A plastic bag. Some shoelaces. There wouldn’t even be any blood. 

_ Don’t hesitate,  _ Villanelle would say. She would remind Eve of Nadia. Of her own moment of weakness. 

Turning her back to Kenny, Eve turns off the tap. Pulling out her EncryptStick, she drops Kenny’s laptop into the water, letting it sink to the bottom.

Satisfied, she walks back over to Kenny, her footsteps too loud on the tile floor. Standing over him, she watches his shallow breaths, the way his chest rises and falls. Then, she grabs the handle of her suitcase and slips back out of the apartment, letting the door shut behind her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, @me on tumble @Vaultdweller


	23. Don’t give me your heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking we've got about six chapter left here. And then a sequel? Oh boy

Villanelle has just about finished scribbling big, cartoonish dicks on every photo of the fudge-looking man in Eve’s apartment when, from her perch in a horribly ugly but sinfully comfortable armchair, she hears the door knob jiggle. Ears pricking at the noise, she snatches a chef’s knife from where she’d set it down on the coffee table before making her way to the hallway. It is probably Eve at the door, yes, but it pays to be prepared, as Konstantin always told her, and she has been caught off guard too many times already in her tangles with the other woman. 

She lurks out of sight until she is sure it is Eve coming in, the light footsteps and flustered pace giving her away. Clearly distracted, she blows right by Villanelle on her way into the kitchen and begins rummaging through what Villanelle can only assume was the liquor cabinet, until Konstantin got his hands in it, of course. Nearly crawling halfway inside the cabinet in her ill-fated search, still Eve does not acknowledge Villanelle, a fact that turns in Villanelle’s mind like a screw. She works the handle of the knife over in her hand once, letting her eyes roam over Eve’s stretched out body. So many places left vulnerable, left unguarded before her. She turns the knife handle over in her hand again. The blade would fit so neatly in the spot just below Eve’s ribs …

No. 

Refocus. 

As light as a feather, she slinks up behind Eve. There is something rolling off the other woman, something tense, like a winch cinched too tight. Villanelle can nearly taste it on her tongue, sharp and sour. She does not notice Villanelle until there is a hand on her hip, spinning her around so they are flush. Villanelle takes a moment to appreciate their positions, a lazy smile on her lips, Eve looking so utterly  _ caught.  _ The hand on Eve’s hip slides somewhere on the border of appropriate and Villanelle revels in how their balance tips, how, for once, it is Eve who is reacting, who is caught off guard. She misses it, being in control, but with Eve she has not missed it so much. It is hard, she thinks, even now, for her to not ruin Eve in a beautiful way. But perhaps there is something waiting for them at the end of this. Something new, and that can be beautiful too. 

So, instead of a knife, Villanelle produces a coffee mug. Full of champagne. 

“I could not find your champagne flutes,” she says. Six months ago, in Paris, she would have found this terribly uncouth. With Eve, though, it is charming, drinking criminally expensive champagne out of terrible mugs. It reminds her of some collective experience she has never had but has watched others bond over. Eve takes the mug with both hands, eyeing it greedily. 

“Yeah, I don’t really have those,” she says before taking a healthy swig. “Never understood the point.” 

Villanelle can drink to that, so she does, out of her own awful mug, one with an oddly drawn cartoon man apparently named Dilbert.

“Now come,” Villanelle beckons, pulled Eve toward the dining room. “And sit down. I got us takeout.” 

Eve eyes the collection of Styrofoam cartons on the table, then gives Villanelle a strange look. Raising an eyebrow in response, Villanelle only gestures at the food, impatient. It has been  _ torture  _ letting the food sit on the table, uneaten, while Eve was away, exacting every modicum of Villanelle’s self control. She is not used to it, having to  _ control  _ herself, but for Eve she will try. 

“Is this Korean?” Eve asks, flipping open a carton. Villanelle hums. 

“It is spicy,” Villanelle answers, expectant but trying to hide it. “I thought you would like it.” 

Eve looks at her strangely again. They sit bookending the comically long dining room table that serves only to showcase how truly alone they are — at this moment yes, but, Villanelle thinks, even before that. She is reminded of her flat in Paris and her table there, kitchen chairs no one had ever sat in, her radio playing for company. She imagines Eve here, eating in front of the television, where it is easier to hide the loneliness in other people on a screen. They are alone now, but together in it, like two ice-cold moons twirling around each other in space. 

Villanelle chews through her food at record pace, heedless of her tingling, burning lips and tongue. She does not care for spicy food, but Eve does.  _ Might,  _ she corrects herself. Though, if Eve’s gusto in working through the first carton is anything to go by, she guessed right. It is exhausting, trying to discern what others want. What they might like. At times, Villanelle’s mind feels like a match that will not light, just striking and striking and striking, producing sparks but no flame. Eve, though, makes fire without trying. Illuminates parts of Villanelle she did not know she had, soft and delicate like flower petals. Encourages them to bloom and threatens to burn them up all at once. Villanelle had considered herself a fully-formed being, ruthless and perfect, but Eve has shown her there is strength in  _ becoming _ . 

Villanelle finds she has run out of both food and thoughts so she settles on watching Eve. When she drains the last of her champagne, Villanelle dutifully rises, grabs the bottle and pours her another heaping mug full. 

“Where are we going next, Eve?” Villanelle asks, bottle still tipped in her hands, the last few drops trickling into Eve’s mug. She waits for an invitation to sit down next to Eve. It does not come. 

“We?” 

“Yes,” Villanelle says, circling back around to her seat. “This place is comfortable, yes. Lots of good memories. For both of us.” She winks, but Eve just stares, face blank, so she continues. 

“But Eve, it is not safe here. And while I do not normally need to be safe, we do not need to be reckless. So, I was thinking we should go, maybe to Prague. I have a place there.” 

“What?” Eve says, finally. 

“We are going to Prague,” Villanelle repeats. 

“I’m not,” Eve starts. Her face screws tight, like she is biting a lemon. “I’m not going to Prague!” 

“You do not like Prague?” 

“I don’t give a shit about Prague,” Eve says, throwing her hands in the air. “I’m not leaving. I have shit to do here. Important shit.

Villanelle is about to remind Eve that, if whatever she is doing is so important, she should probably not refer to it as ‘shit’ but stops herself. Across the table, Eve looks like a woman not fully in herself. Like a reflection in a three-piece mirror, where one frame is slightly askew. Villanelle feels something snap. A wire inside a piano, she feels it sever a note inside her somewhere, the ghost of it hanging in the air. 

“Eve, we cannot possibly stay here,” Villanelle says, as calm as she can muster. Things are unraveling. She senses it but does not yet want to believe it. “Any moment all of MI6 could come bursting through the door.” 

“We?” Eve repeats. “Villanelle — there is no we. There is you. And me. And  _ I _ have work to do.” 

Villanelle looks at Eve, then down at the empty takeaway cartons. She can still feel the heat on her lips and she wishes, fleetingly, they could go back to only a few moments before, when both of them were happily chewing instead of talking. Now her heart is pounding, the rising tide in Eve calling to her like a siren trying to drown them both. 

“What work?” Villanelle bites back. She tastes blood in her mouth now. She remembers. “For MI6? You do not work for them anymore, remember? You are on ‘leave of absence.’ They hired me to kill you, that is how much you do not work for them." 

“You don’t know the first thing about me or what I do,” Eve levels at her, rising to stand. Villanelle rises with her. 

“You do not let me, Eve,” Villanelle fires back. Her eyes sting. The emotion of it catches her by surprise. She wonders if she could flip the table, like those women on TV. The housewives. “You know where I come from, why I am in trouble. My  _ name.  _ But you give nothing. You just take and take and take.” 

“Yes,” Eve answers. “And I am  _ taking  _ my life, or what’s fucking left of it, and I am  _ going  _ wherever the fuck I want. You told me before, Villanelle — we aren’t Bonnie and Clyde. You don’t do teams. And I,” Eve swallows, tripping on her words for a second. “I don’t do them either. Not anymore.” 

“But Eve,” Villanelle says. The words echo through the dining room like a ruin, a Roman courtyard, the soundwaves crossing over centuries. She reaches a hand out, then stops herself, unsure of whether she wants to grab Eve’s hand or wrap her fingers around her throat. The tenuous threads of her control are slipping. She is glad her pistol is in the car downstairs. Her fingers itch for it. Everything is splashed with red, like blood spatter flying off the blade of an axe.

“You are mine,” Villanelle tries.

“No,” Eve returns, shaking her head. She turns back toward the kitchen. 

“I am yours,” Villanelle offers. It comes out soft, softer than she meant. It catches Eve mid-step. It pulls at something. She shakes her head again, curls dancing over her shoulder. 

“You don’t know what that means.” 

“I know,” Villanelle says, taking a breath. “I know that I was so bored. Dead inside. Most of the time? Most days? I felt nothing. I tried to find ways to make myself feel something. I hurt myself — it did not hurt. I bought what I want — I did not want it. I did what I like — I did not like it.

“But you, Eve,” she continues, circling the table, leaning forward. “I feel things, when I am with you.” 

Eve watches her. Looks through her. At all the beautiful and terrible parts. Runs her fingertips over them. Probes and prods at her soft spots, looking for weaknesses to crack open and pull apart. Because that is what this is. Weakness. Eve had made her weak and she had gone, willingly. Is still going. Cannot help herself. 

“Even if there is no ‘we’ the two of us, you and I, cannot stay here, yes? They will catch us both and it will be bad. You will not get any work done,” Villanelle rationalizes. “You can go wherever you want after, but our best bet right now is to leave together.” 

After turning it over, Eve nods. Reluctant but agreeable. Perfect. 

“I have a clean passport with my things. We only need to go to my room at the motel and then off to wherever you want. I even stole us a car. A Land Rover. A big, ugly British thing. It is parked down on the street taking up too many spaces.” 

Eve still has not said anything. Villanelle is not sure which she prefers — yelling Eve or silent Eve. Neither, she decides. Inching her way forward, she puts both her hands up, as if Eve is a deer she does not want to spook. 

“You can pack whatever you need,” she says, soft, when she is within half a step of Eve. Using the moment, Villanelle studies her. The feeling of being so close. The feeling of it all. The loss of it pricks at her already, the memory of loneliness hanging around her neck like a stone. “I will meet you in the car.” 

*** 

London’s streets are quiet and the streetlights splash patches of color in the wet night. Beside her, Eve fidgets nervously. Impatient. Looking for something to occupy herself, she apparently settles on flicking the latch to the glovebox, the sharp clack, clack, clack cutting through Villanelle’s thoughts like a hammer on her skull. 

“Stop that,” she snaps at a red light. Eve looks back at her, defiant. Fingertips toying with the latch. Daring. Villanelle raises an eyebrow. Thinking better of it, Eve huffs and falls back into her seat. 

The motel is only a few minutes away. Then on to Heathrow, probably. And separate plane tickets in opposite directions. Where will she go, Villanelle wonders, with no handler? No job. No money. No one to tell her what is coming next. No one to take care of her. Is this what freedom is? 

It feels hollow. 

Pulling into a spot in the motel parking lot, Villanelle puts the car in park and turns to Eve. 

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. I will go to the room and come right back. If I am gone longer than five minutes or if you see something scary, just leave, okay? Take the car. Do not be brave.” 

Eve looks like she wants to protest but catches herself and nods. 

“See you soon.”

“See you soon,” Eve repeats. 

The words catch Villanelle in the stomach like a sucker punch. Managing a weak smile, she steps into the night, closing the car door as softly as she can manage. She inhales, filling her lungs, pushing out any thoughts other than what is waiting for her in the motel room. The complex is quiet, the rooms mostly dark, and her footsteps sound louder than they should on the pavement, like the ticking of a timer counting down. Just as she is about to enter the corridor, she turns back toward the Land Rover. In the dark of the car’s interior she can just make out Eve, the splash of a street lamp cutting across her cheek. She memorizes it — this moment. The way Eve looks in the dark. Pulls it close as she turns down the exterior hall, past the outward facing rooms until she reaches her own. 

The light is on. 

Fishing the key out of her pocket, Villanelle inserts it into the lock. With a shrill tone, the door unlatches. Pushing down the handle, she lets it swing open, revealing a large figure in a black wool coat. 

“Oh, hello  _ Oksana, _ ” Konstantin remarks, turning around to face her. “I was hoping you would appear. I think it’s time for us to have a little chat.” 

Villanelle steps into the room, letting the door shut behind her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, @ me on Tumblr @Vaultdweller


	24. Come on, come on, come on back to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the clowns!

It’s 30-seconds going on three years since Villanelle left the car and each second picks away at Eve, pecks at her like an angry bird. The Land Rover’s engine, on but idle, lets out a long, shuddering sigh, then vibrates restlessly. Eve can relate. Her own body thrums with something she can taste but whose name hangs just out of reach. She feels it growing from a pit deep inside her, the stalks branching up her throat, out her mouth, pushing into her weak spots and breaking them apart. 

Idly, her fingers find the glove box latch again, the sound of metal against plastic sharp and regular, measuring Villanelle’s absence like a metronome. 

Is this how it ends? Eve wonders why she agreed to come along at all, why she let herself travel to a dark parking lot on the outskirts of the city late at night with a known, trained assassin who had both tried to kill her before and had ample reason to kill her now. She can see Villanelle, clear as day, rounding the car and putting a bullet in her head. Breaking the window to reach in and strangle her, possibly with the seatbelt, some sort of Safety Council nightmare. 

And yet … 

_ I feel things when I am with you.  _

And yet it isn’t Villanelle who has the power to wound, to kill, here, in whatever fucked up thing they are. Not anymore. In this game — not cat-and-mouse, not quite, more like cat-cat with each other, mouse-mouse for other people — Eve holds all the cards, doesn’t she? Villanelle said so herself, that Eve knew practically everything about her, even the bits she could use to inflict pain. And when Eve collected the final card, collected the power Villanelle had given her, when she had all of Villanelle, what did she do? 

Flick. 

Eve looks at herself in the rearview mirror, the reflection at once too close and too far away. She thinks of Amber, poor sweet Amber, bleeding out on the sidewalk, alone and cold. Of Elena, never knowing the truth about the death of her friend. Of Kenny, who worked with her all those years, who helped uncover everything and only got a needle in the back and drugged for his troubles. Three people, interminably hurt, their only sin being knowing Eve. 

And now Villanelle. She’d been hurt before, they’d hurt each other yes, but this, this was deeper. Striking, cruel and true, slicing her aorta, bright red blood spilling and spilling and spilling over them both. Because that’s what she does, isn’t it? Villanelle kills people yes, but Eve hurts them too. Hurts them in a way that changes them, punishes them for their weakness, their trust. At least Villanelle has the decency to make sure they don’t feel it after. That they don’t remember it.

_ You just take and take and take.  _

The numbers on the dashboard clock change, the movement catching Eve’s eye, pulling her attention, for a moment, away from her own reflection. It’s been two minutes. Two minutes since Villanelle left and so far, the only scary thing Eve’s seen is herself. 

Flick. 

Villanelle should be back by now. The realization settles over Eve like a freezing rain, the pit in her stomach cracking and splintering under the dread. Under the thought of what might have been waiting for Villanelle in the motel room. 

Because if Eve is honest with herself, when she thinks of Elena, of Kenny, even of Amber, she feels … nothing. Sorry that it happened, maybe. That it came to this, but not the sorrow, not the well of regret she is perhaps supposed to feel. Her mind has separated from it so thoroughly it’s like watching everything from behind soundproof glass. She can pound and yell and scream, sure, but it won’t change anything. She had to do it. Had to. Just like she had to copy that report. Had to have Kenny dig through the MI6 databases, through their communications. Had to leak everything to the press. Had to. 

But Villanelle? The idea of Villanelle, bleeding out alone on the sidewalk, ambushed and drugged in her apartment, gutted in some terrible motel room — a flush settles over Eve, a feverish fury. A coiling, twisting snake of wrath twined with something else, something so rich and recondite that she dare not name it. Instead, she lets it coil around her neck and squeeze. 

Flick. 

_ You are mine _

Flick. 

_ I am yours. _

With a sharp clack, the glove box slides neatly open. Out onto Eve’s waiting palm drops something shiny and silver. Villanelle’s pistol. Loaded, by the weight of it. 

Eve stares at the gun for a beat, then looks up at the black facade of the motel. The raindrops rolling down the windshield give the building a warped, distorted look, like a funhouse hall of mirrors. A place where hundreds of reflections converge. She imagines hundreds of Eves and Villanelles across separate threads of fate paired off in the rooms, each acting out their own play set into motion. In one, they’re sleeping soundly, Villanelle taking up entirely too much of the hotel bed and Eve contorted around her. In another, Villanelle is firing a gun into Eve’s back. In one, they’re almost certainly fucking their brains out, while next door, Eve straddles Villanelle on the bed and slides a knife into her stomach. And somewhere, among the maze of hallways and rooms, is a room with the door open and the light on, waiting for this Eve to take the stage and join her own production. 

Lacing her fingers around the pistol grip, she thinks again of Villanelle. Not the cracked and vulnerable Villanelle from their argument in the dining room, but brazen and cocky Villanelle from their pursuit with Nadia, reaching into the car and asking, “Do you trust me?” And Eve had. Trusted her. Hadn’t she? Has trusted her this entire time. 

_ You are mine.  _

The car door swings open and Eve steps out into the wet night, making her way toward the darkened motel. 

The outdoor corridors running around the perimeter of the motel are cast in shadows, obscured from the moonlight, and it’s easy to spot the sliver of light thrown out by the unlatched door like a beacon. Eve’s footsteps are soft and her ears strain for any sound, any sign of movement. She hears none. Nudging the door open slowly with her shoulder, she enters the room, pistol first. 

Facing away from her, at the back of the room, is a bulking man in a black wool coat. Over his shoulder, Eve sees Villanelle, pressed against the wall, eyes wide, with the man’s hands around her throat. The creak of the door opening doesn’t catch his attention but, even in the moody shadows thrown across the room, she sees Villanelle’s eyes flick to hers. She looks like the deer, Eve thinks, reckless and scared, bounding in front of a car. 

“Get your  _ fucking  _ hands off her, asshole.”

That gets his attention. 

“Ah. Eve Polastri,” he says over his shoulder. His grip on Villanelle adjusts slightly but doesn’t let up. “I’m glad we can finally meet.” 

“I said drop her.”

Finally turning to look at her, he sees the gun. Doubling down, Eve brings her other hand up to cradle the pistol and slides into a Weaver stance. Raising an eyebrow, the man gives Villanelle’s throat one last squeeze but relents, spinning toward Eve with his hands in the air and taking a step toward her. Villanelle, now free, doesn’t move, only stares, vacant. 

The man’s hair is white and balding, with a salt-and-pepper beard blanketing his cheeks and chin. Eve thinks he looks like a character you’d see on a bottle of Russian vodka, probably sharing a drink with a dancing bear. 

Konstantin, she presumes. 

“You know, Eve Polastri,” Konstantin says, his voice laced with ill-timed amusement. “You have been causing a lot of problems. Big problems. For me. For your bosses. And for this one.” 

He nods back at Villanelle, who remains motionless, watching not Konstain, but Eve, and the gun in her hand. 

“It surprised me. Because you, well, you don’t look like trouble. I expect it from Oksana here, but you?” He laughs, a bark that reverberates through the room like a thunderclap. “You know what they say, though - it is always the ones you least expect.” 

Eve isn’t sure where this is going, but the longer he focuses on her and not Villanelle, the longer Villanelle has to snap out of whatever has taken ahold of her and get the fuck out of there. She tries to will Villanelle to movement with her eyes but they’re empty, taking in but reflecting nothing back. 

“But, I think your time causing trouble is over. I think you have been allowed to run and run and run, but your rope has run out. Because I still hold that rope, maybe not for you, but for this one. For  _ Oksana _ .” 

Villanelle’s face twitches, minute and involuntary, at the use of her old name. Her eyes dart to Konstantin and Eve sees a fury there, raw and bloody. 

“Kill her,” Konstantin says, turning to look at Villanelle. He points a finger back at Eve. “Kill Eve Polastri.” 

She could, Eve knows. Kill her. Armed, Eve might stand a sporting chance, but the odds weren’t in her favor. The assassin is fast, like a weasel, and relentless.

Villanelle brings a hand up to her already bruising throat and rubs, but otherwise stays still. Konstantin licks his lips and looks at her, then back at Eve, his head swiveling between them. Realization dawns on him then, slowly, like the sun cresting the horizon. 

“Oh,” he says, simply. He laughs again but there’s no mirth in it, just a sardonic note. “I see. I see, I see, I see.” 

He turns toward Villanelle. Eve raises the pistol a half inch, keeping the barrel trained on his back where a bullet would tear, first through his shoulder, then his heart. 

“This is it, hm?” Konstantin asks, a step-and-a-half away from Villanelle. She won’t meet his eyes, looking only over his shoulder at Eve. “This is gratitude? For pulling you out of that prison? For all those years I clothed and fed you? Put you in nice apartments and nice hotel rooms? Cleaned up after your shit?”

His voice grows louder with each word until he’s practically shouting, his voice harsh and biting, like he’s scolding a dog, something that doesn’t know better but should. He leans toward Villanelle, towering over her somehow, despite their comparative height. 

“Back off,” Eve growls. At her voice, Konstantin straightens, his hands coming up again. His fingers twitch, like he wants to feel Villanelle’s throat again, crush her airway, but thinks better of it. 

“It will be the same for you too,” he says. His words are hollow now, the harshness seeped out of them. There’s almost a sorrow there. Slowly, he pivots back to Eve and takes a step toward her. “It always ends the same.” 

“It won’t.” 

“It will. You will give her everything. Your life. Your money. Your mind. She will take it all, but she will want more and then you will be here too. You’ve read about Anna, yes? Saw what happened to Nadia. And now, me. You know what happens to the people she loves.” 

Loves. 

Eve’s lips tremble. The unnamed thing around her throat squeezes tighter, winds itself down her arm. She feels it on the finger resting on the pistol’s trigger. It comes alive at its own name, the acknowledgement of it. The permission. 

She thinks of her ex-husband Niko. Of all the friends she’s kept at arm’s-length. Of her mother back in America and their twice-yearly perfunctory calls. At the swirling, shallow connections she’s made in the world, swelling and disappearing with the tide. Her eyes slide to Villanelle, with her aloof, catlike gaze and beautiful, high cheekbones. She remembers the photos of Frank’s body, hanging gutted and castrated, blood smeared like paint across and artist’s studio. Is that the kind of person who could love her? Love the real Eve? Could only someone capable of such intense, merciless violence behold the dark parts of Eve without flinching? The thought of it, the thought of being known, thrills her. 

“You think she would do the same for you?” Konstantin asks. “Protect you? Kill someone she cares about for you? No. Her mind doesn’t work like that. You will be dead and she will be off on her next adventure, not thinking of you at all.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I don’t?” He says with a small laugh, looking back at Villanelle for a beat. “I think I know better than anyone right now.” 

But Villanelle had already proved him wrong, had already killed for Eve when she didn’t have to. She could have just as easily put a bullet in Eve’s head and run off with Nadia, or killed the other assassin too. Just as easily, but she didn’t. She didn’t. Eve licks her lips, her finger firming up on the trigger. 

“She is a parasite, Eve,” Konstantin continues. There’s no pleading in his voice, just a man trying to share what he knows before he dies. He must see it already, what’s going to happen. “Like that hungry caterpillar, she gets into your head and eats and eats and eats until there is nothing left. Only her.” 

Only her. 

Eve wants to laugh because Villanelle's already done it. Burrowed her way into Eve’s brain and made everything — Eve’s work, Eve’s life, Eve’s emotions — all about her. 

_ You are mine. _

This time, Eve knows a failsafe isn’t coming so she doesn’t wait. She knows the only thing between her brain and firing the shot is an electrical signal racing down her nerves, telling her finger to apply the 5lbs of pressure needed to depress the trigger. 

So she does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad news - next week I'm being furloughed from by job  
Good news - I'll probably have enough free time to finish this bad boy!  
As always, @ me on tumblr @Vaultdweller


	25. Hold on 'cause the coldest hasn't thawed yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy, some NSFW ahead

The gunshot cracks through the room like a clap of thunder and Villanelle jumps, startled more than she would like to admit but free of whatever spell Konstantin held her under. In front of her, he drops to his knees, but before he can shout out in pain Villanelle grabs a shirt off the motel bed and stuffs it in his mouth from behind. It is silk and expensive and Villanelle mourns it as she hooks her arm under his chin and tightens it like a vice, a perfect sleeper hold, just like he taught her. The bulk of his coat makes it tricky but he is losing blood and soon he goes slack and gimpy under her grip. She drops him then, letting his head crack unceremoniously against the floor. 

Eve is stone still and silent from where she fired the shot and Villanelle leaves her be as she checks Konstantin for any sign of an entrance wound, a blooming pool of blood unfurling like a rose, but there’s none near his head or upper body. It is only when she brings her gaze lower, when she notices a growing dark stain on his grey pants at the juncture of his legs does it all click into place. 

“In the balls, Eve?” Villanelle asks. “Really?” 

“Well I don’t know, do I?” Eve answers, throwing her hands up, indignant. 

Villanelle looks down again at Konstantin’s unconscious form and his free-bleeding wound. The shape of it reminds her of those ink blots the man in Paris, the shrink, used to have her stare at. There will be no more visits to the man in Paris now, she thinks, not after this. It is a fitting end, for the two of them. Konstantin brought her into this world, dragged her from the darkness of the Hole and into the light. She is of his ilk. His kin. But they are two snakes, now, in the same grass, but only enough mice for one. It had to end this way, one swallowing the other whole. Villanelle likes the romanticism of it, the apprentice overcoming the master. The weight around her neck loosens a little but is not yet gone. 

“No,” she says, shaking her head with a cruel chuckle. “This is funny. You are very funny, Eve.” 

Eying the pile of her clothes on the bed, Villanelle sifts through them until she finds a pair of baby blue silk panties. 

“Very funny,” she mumbles, mostly to herself as she squats down and tries to fit the underwear over Konstantin’s head like a hat. For good measure and all that. His humiliation complete, Villanelle slaps him hard on the cheek, cupping the fat of it until it bulges, like a hamster, as she leans in close. 

“I hope you like your daughter,” she whispers into his ear, her voice low and the edge of it sharp. “There will be no more little Konstantins for you now, no? You are lucky. If it had been me, we both know you would be dead, and I would be whispering to your corpse. Like a real crazy person.” 

Villanelle swallows, then, and waits a beat, waits for any sign of movement. She is so close to Konstantin she can see each fleck of black and white in his beard, the way wrinkles gather around his eyes like the end of a river, where it meets the sea. For as long as they have known each other, Villanelle does not remember a time when she had ever been this close to him. What a thing, she thinks, to know someone for so long but never get close enough to really see them. For a moment, Villanelle wonders what it would be like to be truly free. To be able to choose whether she stays or walks away. Her whole life she has passed from one hand to the next, one cage to the next. From Anna to the prison to Konstantin and the Twelve. Some of the cages had been prettier, but cages still. Can we ever be truly free, she wonders, or do we all just pass from cage to cage? 

“Goodbye, Товарищ,” she says. She searches for something inside herself, something she is perhaps supposed to feel but there is nothing, just scabbed, cracked edges and a hole where there was once flesh and sinew. “You should hope to never see me again.” 

She stands. The motel room is cramped and the walls are thin. They need to leave. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Villanelle’s head whips around to where Eve is standing, framed in the open door. Any indignity having evaporated, she is trembling now. Villanelle watches the silver of the pistol catch the light as it shakes in Eve’s hands, her face looking like a mirror shattered with a well aimed punch. She is crumbling and something inside Villanelle crumbles too. 

“No,” Villanelle coos, skipping over Konstantin and crossing the room toward her. Gently, she eases the gun out of Eve’s hands and tucks it into her own waistband before reaching up to cup Eve’s face. 

“No, Eve, do not be sorry,” she says, her words soft. Villanelle hopes they land somewhere on the plane of reassuring. “You did good. We are safe, now. Because of you. You made us safe.” 

Eve looks up at her and Villanelle tries to find whatever deep place she has sunk into. She thinks of killing, of death and how, if you watch their eyes, you can see their soul shrink and sink in. Never had she wanted to reach a hand in and yank them out. Until now. She will pull Eve out. 

“That was very good,” she repeats, a smile playing at her lips. “But also very loud, so we need to leave quickly, okay?” 

Nodding, Eve turns toward the motel room door. Belatedly, Villanelle remembers the reason she came back to the room in the first place. In two short strides she is back looming over Konstantin, whose eyebrows are twitching now as he fights to regain consciousness. Pulling back the flap of his coat, Villanelle reaches into an inside pocket, extracting her passport and several hundred Euros, small bills folded together with rubber bands. Stuffing them into her own jacket pocket, she gives Konstantin one last, long look. The pistol in her waistband presses uncomfortably into the muscles of her stomach, prodding her insides. It sits heavy, a weight, one of those triangular sinkers tied to fishing hooks dragging her into the depths. She feels the braided line unspooling, screaming against the gears as it plummets down. She waits for it to run out of line, to catch with a jerk. Waits for the part of herself that will pull the gun out and send a bullet into Konstantin’s skull but it does not come. She leans over and spits in his face instead. 

***

Back at the Land Rover, Eve asks to drive. Actually, asks is not the right word, not when she holds her hand out for the keys and gruffs out a “Let me drive.” There is not even a ‘please’ in there, not even a hint of it and it makes Villanelle smile because not only is the display so very Eve, but the Land Rover is also keyless, requiring only an app on Villanelle’s phone that mimics the key fob’s wireless signal. 

“Jesus Christ,” Eve huffs, opening the door and hauling herself up into the driver’s seat. “Whatever. Get in.” 

As Eve navigates the slick London streets, Villanelle fidgets nervously in her seat, unsure of where exactly it is safe to look. They seem to be moving with a destination in mind and the question dances on the tip of Villanelle’s tongue. Her mouth twitches with it, she hums with it, but she remembers. Remembers last time she asked where they were going, what they were going to do. No, she will wait now. Wait for Eve to offer. 

“There’s a safehouse not too far from here,” Eve offers, then. Something inside Villanelle blooms. She smiles wide and cunning, sure her white teeth catch the streetlights in the dark. “We can lay low there.”

“Is it safe?” It is a joke, a lame one. An attempt to keep the conversation moving. Eve scoffs. 

“Well, yeah. It’s a safehouse,” Eve replies. “It’s kind of in the name.” 

The silence that falls between them could be comfortable if Villanelle did not hate comfortable, did not hate patience. She wants to prod this new offering, this new skin shown by Eve so she does it, softly. 

“How do you know it?” 

“My …  _ the  _ team at MI6 used it if they needed to hold someone in London and they didn’t want anyone to know. If they were working with us as a mole or for … interrogations,” she responds, quickly. Her tone is clinical, almost bored but Villanelle is enraptured, lapping up every bit, every hint of Eve. “It’s a real off-the-books, off-the-grid kind of place.” 

“Off-the-grid? In the middle of London?” 

“You’d be surprised at what’s hiding here in plain sight,” Eve answers, turning to look at Villanelle. Her expression is clouded, murky, like steam collected on a shower mirror Villanelle cannot wipe away no matter how many times she runs her palms across it. She presses her nose to the glass instead, trying desperately to see through, to join Eve in her world. 

“Or maybe you wouldn’t,” Eve continues. “Be surprised, that is. You’re pretty accustomed to working in the shadowy back alleys of life.” It is Villanelle’s turn to scoff then. She is reminded of something one of her trainers told her, back when she was still a wild killer and not a honed assassin. Winners win alone. She could have the trappings of a normal life, the expensive clothes and the nice flat and the dinners out and the beautiful women — but she would never be like them. Something inside her was irrevocably flipped, leaving her to inhabit a kind of mirror world, doomed to crave influence and understanding but trapped in her glass box, pounding her fists.

“I know my way around a back alley, yes,” Villanelle replies, sultry. A low simmering flirt, but where or how she is not sure. Maybe just to prove she can. Eve raises an eyebrow then, mercifully, turns back toward the road. 

“Anyways, it certainly won’t be the nicest place you’ve ever stayed. No wi-fi, no electricity, nothing that can be tracked to give away its location. It’s hooked into the water, though, so you can have a shower, at least,” Eve prattles on, naming all the things this safehouse will not have while completely and utterly missing the one thing that will make it thoroughly superior to wherever else Villanelle would have laid her head that night. 

And that thing is Eve.

“Eve,” Villanelle says, cautiously reaching out to lay her hand softly on Eve’s arm. It is like petting a viper. She feels the potential of something moving under Eve’s skin. It electrifies her. “Eve, I spent five years in a Russian prison. Five years! Most of it in solitary. I did not have anything. Even a bucket to shit in. Your safe house will be, will be Taj Mahal, comparatively.” 

“And besides,” she offers, leaning back in her seat because nothing ventured, nothing gained, or some shit like that. “You will be there.” 

***

Villanelle gives Eve some credit — mentally of course — as the safehouse is rather ingeniously positioned, carved out of extra space inside a mid-rise apartment building in an up-and-coming neighborhood. They ditch the Land Rover two blocks away and walk until they reach a metal door at the back of the building that, at first glance, looks like an exit only. Until Eve runs a magnet hidden on her keychain over a particular spot on the door and it pops open. Like magic. Villanelle grins. It is like being in a real spy movie. Color her impressed. 

They take a service elevator up to what seems like the top floor, but when Villanelle moves to get off, Eve grabs her wrist, shaking her head with a sly smile. The doors come together again, enclosing them in the small space. There are no reflective surfaces here to watch them. No sounds from the outside world able to penetrate. Eve could kill her here. She could kill Eve. They could splatter each other’s blood, paint the walls of this tiny elevator with magnificent art that would never be found. The elevator just traversing between floors, opening to no one. Villanelle licks her lips. It is addicting, being trapped in small spaces with something so dangerous, someone so dangerous. Usually it is her, showing her fangs like a tiger. The moment passes, but it lingers in the air, like static. 

Predictably, the apartment is dark as Eve unlocks the door and lets it swing open. Digging out her phone, Villanelle flips on the flashlight app and thinks, in passing, of a horror movie. Of someone hiding in the shadows waiting to pounce. 

“Welcome home,” Eve remarks, cheerily, as she kicks the door closed behind them and does up the deadbolt. She seems to know her way around the place, even without a flashlight, and soon she is in the hauntingly bare kitchen, ducking and reaching into the cabinet under the sink to pull out a pair of small, LED camping lanterns. They do not add much in the way of light, but Villanelle is able to make out the shape of a sofa and, the adrenaline from earlier having worn off, she plops herself onto the worn cushions, letting her bones sink into it. She reaches into her bag and pulls out two bottles of champagne, rescued from Eve’s apartment, and lines them up on the coffee table. 

After some fumbling deeper in the apartment, Eve joins her on the sofa, close enough that their thighs touch. Villanelle feels they are attached there, by that strip of skin. She would die for them, those few inches. Wholly unaware of Villanelle’s mental crisis next to her, Eve sets a small device down on the coffee table in front of them, a hotspot, then pulls out her laptop and a USB stick. The blue light from the laptop screen gives the room an eerie glow and Villanelle watches as Eve enters password after password to access the files on the stick. 

“I was married once,” Eve says, suddenly. Villanelle’s eyes flick from the screen to Eve’s face but she is focused only on the task at hand. Villanelle can see the computer screen reflected in Eve’s eyes, see the documents move from one device to the other. “For about ten years.” 

“I did not know that,” Villanelle says, licking her lips. Eve snorts. 

“Polastri sounds like a Korean name to you?” 

“It is not my job to make assumptions.” 

“That’s,” Eve stops for a moment and looks at Villanelle. There is something wild in her face. Villanelle recognizes it because she feels it too. The hunt. “That’s remarkably self-aware. For you, that is.” 

Villanelle preens at the compliment. 

“I saw photos of him, in your apartment,” Villanelle ventures. “He looks like someone stuck a mustache on some fudge.” 

Eve barks out a laugh and nods, still working on her computer. She pulls the stick out, lets it sit on the table as she opens up an encrypted web browser and navigates to a website populated entirely by a flowing, looping script. Villanelle’s eyes flick to Eve, then back to the screen and she types, presumably, a username and password and begins dropping the transferred files into a popup window. 

“You speak … Arabic?” Villanelle asks. Eve hums. 

“Enough,” she answers, simply. Villanelle cocks her head, like she is trying to get a better look at Eve, a better angle. So full of secrets, Eve is. And Villanelle has only begun to uncover them. 

“Can I ask what you are doing?” 

“You can,” Eve replies with the quirk of her lips and no explanation forthcoming. Villanelle waits, patiently, for about one second, then whines, petulant. 

“Eve,” she groans, drawing out the syllable, stretching it to truly impressive lengths until Eve knocks a shoulder against hers in an effort to stop it. 

“Fine, fine,” Eve laughs. “Just … never make that noise again, okay? You really are insufferable.” 

Villanelle does not pretend any differently. 

“Alright, I just took a bunch of files off the MI6 database and I’m uploading them to a file hosting site,” she continues. “The site’s servers are in Turkey. It’s actually one of the more popular file-sharing sites in the Middle East. A lot of small time groups, ones that can’t afford their own servers and encryption, use it because they don’t trust Western technology or websites. The security isn’t as good, but the sheer volume of uploads keeps them obscured. And, since my team at MI6 was disbanded, I know for a fact no one is monitoring it anymore.” 

“Ooohh,” Villanelle says, leaning in close, looping her arms around Eve’s. “This is like, real spy stuff.” 

“Spy stuff, on a budget.” 

On the screen, the bar tracking their upload progress inches forward at a maddening pace. Villanelle has already lost patience three times over and there is still another third to go. She does not know how Eve does it. She is anxious for more, anxious for what is next already, even when what is in front of them is unfinished. Instead, she studies Eve, who is so close she can see the wispy baby hairs that frame her forehead and the hint of wrinkles at the corner of her eyes. On Konstantin, they made him look tired. On Eve, they are regal. 

“Finally,” Eve mutters as the upload finishes. Closing the laptop with a crack, she rises from the couch and slips back into the shadows of the kitchen. Villanelle’s eyes adjust as Eve turns the tap at the sink and lets the basin fill before, to Villanelle’s dismay, dropping her laptop, USB stick and hotspot into the water. 

“Oh,” Villanelle pouts. “I was going to ask if we could watch a movie.” 

“Hmm,” Eve says, slinking back toward the couch. Her eyes are hooded and dark. “No, I don’t think so. Not tonight.” 

“Not tonight?” Villanelle parrots back because there is something happening here, something tipping. Something she hopes is in her favor. 

“No, not tonight,” Eve replies, her voice low and throaty. She rounds the couch, but instead of dropping beside Villanelle, she drops a knee on one side of Villanelle’s hips, then gracefully brings the other around, sliding into Villanelle’s lap to straddle her. 

“Oh,” Villanelle manages, somehow, despite Eve’s warm breath on her throat causing a short circuit in her brain, among other parts. Without the laptop the apartment is much darker and the few points of light illuminate Eve’s skin like spots on a leopard. 

“Yeah,” Eve hums, bringing their lips together, finally. It is warm and slow, like sap dripping down a tree and Villanelle feels the air grow sticky around them with the heat of it. She brings up her hands, first to rest, then to grip, Eve’s hips as they roll into hers. 

“I grew up in Connecticut,” Eve murmurs, punctuating with a bite to Villanelle’s lower lip. 

“Connecticut?” Villanelle repeats, her accent skipping over the syllables like a stone across the surface of a lake. “That is in America, yes?” 

“It is,” Eve answers, threading her fingers through Villanelle’s hair and tipping her head back, gently, to expose her throat. “You’d like America. It’s brash. Unapologetic. Like you.” 

Villanelle whines at that, and at the feeling of teeth and tongue against her throat, against her pulse. Eve’s grip is steady, grounding, but despite having no heat it feels too warm in the small apartment and they both have on too many clothes. 

“Is there a bed?” Villanelle asks, chest heaving. 

“There is,” Eve replies, looking up from where she was busy marking Villanelle’s throat. Again. Villanelle thinks she may need to invest in some turtlenecks. Or just not give a fuck. Whichever. 

“Can we go there now? Please?” 

As an answer, Eve pulls Villanelle forward by her jacket, walking them both back through a short hallway and into the tiny bedroom, where Eve’s knees quickly knock against the mattress. 

“I studied criminology in undergrad,” Eve recites, bringing Villanelle’s hands to the hem of her shirt in a silent instruction, which she follows, fingers sliding along the planes and grooves of Eve’s skin until it is all revealed before her, the pale glow of the camping lantern giving Eve a spectral, ethereal glow. Leaning in, Villanelle presses her lips to Eve’s collarbone, then down her sternum, between her ribs, above her navel until, dropping to her knees, Villanelle reaches the waistband of her slacks. Nosing along the edge, she looks up at Eve, expectant. Hips roll against her chin, urging her on. 

“I had a particular interest in female serial killers,” Eve huffs out as Villanelle drags her slacks and panties down in one go and presses tickling kisses along her inner thigh. Pulling back slightly, Villanelle feels her face split open into a shit-eating grin. 

“You did not.” 

“I certainly did.” 

Emboldened, Villanelle rises slowly up to her full height, drags her nails along Eve’s back hard enough to bite, to leave little red marks as her fingers circle around Eve’s throat, tracing her jaw. 

“And what do you think?” Villanelle purrs. “Are you still interested?” 

“Definitely.” 

With that, Villanelle hooks her hands under Eve’s ass and lifts until the other woman’s thighs are wrapped around her waist and they are pressed together, Eve’s chest heaving against hers, Villanelle’s teeth nipping at Eve’s throat. Lowering them both onto the bed, Villanelle slots their bodies together and slips a thigh between Eve’s legs, enjoying the way she ruts into it, like she cannot control herself. Usually it is Villanelle who feels like this, spinning and spinning and spinning like a top under Eve’s attention. It is good, she thinks, to have the tables turned. 

“Tell me Eve,” Villanelle growls, a hand slipping down to join her thigh. She groans at the wetness she feels there, nearly undone. “What do you feel, now, with me?” 

“I feel,” Eve says, her eyes lock with Villanelle’s. The fog behind them has lifted and Villanelle can see into the depths, sees everything. Everything. “I feel you everywhere. Watching me. Thinking about me. I feel you in my mind, eating away all the parts that aren’t you.” 

“What else do you feel, Eve?” 

“I feel … wide awake.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can berate me on Tumblr @Vaultdweller


	26. If it's all in my head there's nothing to fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is in sight!

Falling asleep stark naked under a thin blanket in an apartment with no heat in the middle of winter seemed like a fine idea, back when she and Villanelle were fucking each other with enough voracity to steam up the windows like their own personal terrarium. 

Several hours later, though, their thermal energy having dissipated, Eve is dragged back into consciousness by the creeping cold moving up through her fingertips like poison traveling through her veins. Her nose is bitterly chilled. She buries it into Villanelle’s neck, seemingly the last bastion of warmth in the room —

“Oooh, is baby cold?” Villanelle coos, sleepily. 

And bites. 

“Ah,” Villanelle hisses. Somewhere beneath the blanket, in the knot of their bodies, Villanelle’s hips rock. “Do not start something you cannot finish, Eve.” 

Groaning, Eve wrenches her eyes open and is greeted by the sight of Villanelle’s throat, mottled with lovely bite marks. Long fingers card through her hair, softly. Surely it looks like a rat’s nest but Villanelle doesn’t seem to mind. 

“I know,” Villanelle sighs, relaxing for a moment into their shared space, into the little pocket of the universe they’ve created for themselves. “But we have to go.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Like, now.” 

“Yeah,” Eve repeats, shifting more of her weight to sit on top of Villanelle, holding her down. Her hands are awake now, traversing warm skin. 

“Well,’ Villanelle says, thoughtfully. “Maybe not now. But soon.” 

There’s a moment where Eve thinks she’ll get what she wants, a pliant, sleep-soft Villanelle to play like a violin, her fingers the bow, Villanelle’s body the strings. But then two hands catch hers in a solid grip, halting their progress. In the grey light of the room, Villanelle’s hazel eyes are dark, the blue-green light parts chased away. 

“If you do not stop, you will not get breakfast,” she says, seriously. 

“Breakfast?” 

“Yes,” Villanelle replies and before Eve can quite register the change in equilibrium, her world is reversed as she’s suddenly flipped onto her back, Villanelle looming over her like a predator, full of teeth. 

“I am making champagne.” 

“Champagne isn’t breakfast,” Eve laughs. Villanelle rolls off the bed and scoffs. 

“It is if you put orange juice in it.” 

“Do you have orange juice?” 

“No,” Villanelle replies from the door frame, one foot in the bedroom, one foot almost in the kitchen the apartment is so small. Eve's eyes, as hungry as her stomach, trace the planes of her body. “But we can use our imaginations.” 

A well-timed grumble from Eve’s stomach interrupts the banter. She doesn’t know what time it is, but they certainly aren’t going to get very far on empty stomachs. 

“I don’t think our imaginations are going to fix that.” 

“Fine, fine,” Villanelle relents, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “She wants food now. Okay, I will go down to the bakery across the street and come back with sweets. All the food you could want.” 

Eve bites her lip. It’s dangerous, leaving and coming back. Especially alone. Needlessly dangerous. She runs a quick calculation in her head, weighing how long it would take MI6 to clean up the mess they left with Konstantin, how long it would take to figure out that they hadn’t left the country, how long it would take to review the CCTV and determine they were still in London, how many safehouses they’ll raid before they get to this one. They have, maybe a few days before MI6 or the Twelve or whoever else they’ve pissed off in all of this to pick up the trail, but there’s no need to be reckless about it. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Eve says. Villanelle, predictably, pouts at the loss of hypothetically promised sweets. 

“It will be  _ fine,  _ Eve. You worry so much.” Villanelle’s already pulling on yesterday’s clothes, her words muffled as she yanks her shirt over her head. Eve knows she's already lost this battle, Villanelle's superpowered Id too strong. “It will be five minutes. Ten, maybe. I will come right back. Take a shower, get ready, and we can leave as soon as I return.” 

Eve’s shoulders sag in defeat. A shower isn’t a bad idea, though. 

“Alright. But don’t be a dick,” Eve says, pointing at Villanelle, who's balancing perfectly on one foot, pulling on her shoes. “Ten minutes. Any longer and I’m coming after you.” 

“I have no doubt about that,” Villanelle says, righting herself. “See you soon.” 

“See you soon.” 

***

The shower is a wretched thing, with the water pressure of a geriatric old man and somehow more frigid than the air inside the apartment. Eve feels like her skin is about to split under the stream it’s so cold and soon she’s shivering like a chihuahua behind the shower curtain. 

Why hadn’t she gone with Villanelle, Eve wonders, trying desperately to wash whatever off-brand shampoo they’d had in the shower out of her hair. Why had she chosen this torture? Where are they even going to go? What is the plan?

She’d had a plan, before, of course. Run away with MI6’s secrets and leak them to the press, spread them to the outside world until she was caught and, presumably, neutralized. Easy. Simple. Clean. There was no room for Villanelle - with all her ego and flair for the dramatic - in that plan. No others. Only Eve. 

But now there  _ is  _ Villanelle. She’d made that choice, back at the motel room. When she’d shot Konstantin instead of letting him take her back, like a toy he remembered wasn’t for sharing. He could be dead by now, Eve thinks. Could have bled out of any number of arteries or veins. She could have killed him, for Villanelle. They’re bonded now, she thinks, tied together with string dyed red, not with their own blood, but the blood of other people. There’s no more  _ I,  _ now. Only  _ we.  _ Us. Them. 

_ They  _ need to decide. 

*** 

She hears it while toweling half-frozen beads of water off her arms — a creak, originating from somewhere else in the apartment. Like someone shifting their weight from the right foot to the left before catching themselves at the noise. It’s soft, but easily breaks the thick silence and Eve’s ears prick as every hair on her arms stands on end. At once, the apartment seems cavernous, acoustics throwing and magnifying any noise, however slight. Eve has shrunk down to the size of a mouse, the danger of her surroundings suddenly much larger than she'd first perceived. 

It’s not Villanelle, that’s for sure. Villanelle would make an entrance, come sweeping into the apartment with every pastry and sugary drink the bakery had on the menu, chiding Eve for worrying so when clearly,  _ clearly _ everything was fine. Eve’s first thought is of the gun - Villanelle’s pistol. It hadn’t been in her pants when she’d taken them off.  _ Where did she hide it? _

Hastily throwing on her clothes, Eve steps out of the bathroom slowly, one foot in front of the other, like she’s negotiating a minefield. There aren’t many places in the small space to hide — an advantage, yes, but also incredibly unfortunate. She can see the front door from the close-clipped hallway but there are still blind spots, angles obscuring a possible intruder. Once again, Eve wishes she’d done some sort of training, some sort of Spy 101 workout video on Youtube before all this. Oh well, she thinks, twisting her feet into a terrible approximation of a starting position. Too late now. Villanelle better get back soon. 

Maybe it was her imagination? Some sort of auditory hallucination, a figment of her brain trying to fill the nether left by Villanelle's absence. Maybe her brain isn't used to peace and quiet anymore and craves excitement so much it manufactures it, creates it where there is none. 

Then she hears it again. She isn't crazy. At least, not in that respect. Jury is still out in other respects. 

With a long, slow exhale through her teeth, Eve takes off like a shot, suppressing the surprising urge to give some sort of warrior yell, like Xena before she slapped bad guys with her chakram and the magic of physics, or lack thereof. If you can’t beat them, make them think you’re crazy.

Despite clearing the hallway in two quick strides, Eve’s foot catches the corner of the sofa and like that, her hopes of a clean getaway are over. 

_ This is it,  _ she thinks, stumbling in slow motion, arms outstretched toward the door.  _ Everything up until this point. All this running. Shooting. Killing. All these secrets. Undone by her foot, a half-inch out of place. Undone by her own clumsiness.  _

Now would be a great time for Villanelle to come back. 

She doesn’t. 

Instead, massive arms wrap around Eve from behind, coiling around her chest and throat like pythons as she’s slammed into the door, rubbing her face, literally, in her misplaced trust. Stars dance before her eyes at the impact, but before she can recover, she’s whipped around like a teacup in a whirling ride and tossed against the counter, one hand pressing her face into the cheap laminate, the other trying to fold her arms back to subdue her. 

Though she’s no lightweight, Eve quickly realizes there’s no way she’ll be able to overpower whatever thug they’ve sent after her. She gives the door one last, hopeful glance before switching tacks, because if Villanelle isn’t here, then Eve will just have to think like her. And what would Villanelle do? 

Play dirty. 

Twisting an arm free, Eve employs a tried and true tactic, passed down from generation to generation, woman to woman, for hundreds, if not thousands of years. 

Go for the balls. 

With everything she can muster, Eve drives an elbow back into the man’s crotch, catching him off guard and undefended. The grip on her head slackens a fraction, enough for her to shove him off and spin around. Desperate, she reaches a hand out along the counter, hoping to find something, anything that could be used as a weapon. 

Her fingers hit … a champagne bottle. Left untouched by Villanelle. 

_ That’ll do,  _ she thinks as she wraps both hands around the bottle’s neck and swings, throwing her whole weight behind the blue glass, twisting her hips like a baseball player in a homerun derby, the man’s head right in her wheelhouse. 

The bottle connects with a sickening crunch and instantly shatters, erupting into a thousand shards of glass and sending blood-tinged champagne splattering across the floor, the walls, the ceiling and Eve. The man falls back against the floor into a puddle of the sticky liquid, completely still, blood oozing from the shrapnel embedded in his face. Eve breathes in quick gasps, her lungs greedily drinking in air as she watches him, his breaths coming slower and slower until she is breathing for both of them. 

The door behind her opens but Eve can’t turn around, can’t look away yet. 

“It’s about time,” she manages, letting the neck of the champagne bottle slip from her grasp and onto the floor with a clink. She’s about to apologize to Villanelle, make some snarky remark about wasting perfectly good champagne, but it dies in her throat at the realization that something isn't right. 

Abruptly, her world goes black as a hood is slipped over her head and the sound of ripping duct tape drowns out her scream. 

“Now Eve,” a voice hisses in her ear as the tape is wrapped around her head, over her mouth. It’s smarmy and his breath smells like chewing tobacco and diet soda even through canvas. “Didn’t you know? Good assassins always work in pairs." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always come say hi on Tumblr @vaultdweller


	27. Flow sweetly, hang heavy

***20 minutes earlier* **

Villanelle lets the door fall shut behind her, the stark catch of the latch reminding her that she is at once, disarmingly, alone. 

It should not be such a strange thing, this aloneness. For most of her life she has inhabited this space, pressed herself into the corners, protected it fiercely like a den. But for her whole life, and the life before this one, since she was a snot-nosed little girl on the playground at school, she knew she was cut off from others, relegated to this aside space, destined to always be on the other side of the window looking in. She could mimic them, of course, carry on the motions - eat when they ate, laugh when they laughed, cry when they cried, train her voice to hit the notes that meant happy and sad, reassurance and sympathy, but it was off. Always it was off, like an object superimposed, a little to the left. A single bulb burned out, leaving the whole strand dead. 

Eve, though. The two of them are together, in their aloneness, the tethers of their old lives each neatly snipped, leaving them to float like balloons into the stratosphere, separate but on the same journey into the airless void. Stepping into this aloneness is like stepping back into a dream interrupted. If Villanelle looks closely enough she can see the seams holding everything together and she wonders if they were always there but ignored, in her frenzy to live in the moment. Can you live in a dream so long you forget it is a dream? And where is she, now? Is she stepping back into a dream, or is she awake? 

Spread before her are infinite threads, branching out from her hands, from her feet, tugging at her like a spider’s web, at each end a fly, a prize, calling for her attention, singing a sweet siren’s song in the throes of its own demise. Begging for death in a tune synced to Villanelle’s ears alone. Choices. Choices open to her suddenly, blindingly, after breaking free from Konstantin, from the Twelve. Like going from seeing nothing at all to seeing everything at once. It is overwhelming. Cacophonic. So much so that, for a long moment, she stands paralyzed outside the door, with only the loud hum of the building to swallow her panicked breathing. 

Can you live in a cage so long you forget it is a cage? Can you live in a cage so long that you would choose to stay, even if the door opens? 

Villanelle licks her lips, unsure if staying with Eve was truly freedom, or just another cage. If she is simply passing her leash from one hand to another and whether, right now, in this moment, that matters. One thing is for certain - she will not go back to the cage the Twelve put her in, gilded but so tight her shoulders cramped. 

She sighs, loudly, exasperated with herself. Her brain, her mind, was not built for this. For tackling the profound. For contemplating herself. Her mind struggles, sputters to comprehend itself. She has learned to know, to feel herself through other people, through her influence on them. But here, in this hallway, there is no one. Only Villanelle, stretching out like a hall of infinite mirrors all pointed at each other, expanding forever but reflecting nothing. 

She feels drained. She needs sweets. 

The elevator doors part and the cabin greets her like a cocoon, a place to rest and realign herself. To take stock of the mush of her brain and her insides and press them back into the mold of Villanelle, the mold of an internationally renowned assassin. A predator. Absolutely whipped into popping down to the bakery and bringing back breakfast for her … girlfriend? Partner? Target? 

Great, Villanelle huffs, the elevator doors opening back up to deposit her on the building’s ground floor. Another thing to  _ think _ about. 

Bursting through the steel door, she startles a pair of pigeons waddling along the sidewalk outside, their frantic whistling wingbeats wrenching Villanelle from her uncharacteristic contemplation. She watches them scramble for safety, the door resting lightly against her fingertips. She read once, in another life, that pigeons are among the strongest, most agile fliers in nature. How terrible, Villanelle thinks, to have such amazing attributes, only to be cursed to make such ridiculous noises. But here she is - beautiful, deadly. Full of attributes. What is her curse?

Across the street, the bakery catches her eye. Villanelle’s mouth waters. She can almost taste them. The donuts. The pastries. Perhaps they will even have those artisan breakfast sandwiches. They will need the protein, she thinks, if they are to be on the run for the foreseeable future. She goes to take a step, then freezes, the door teetering in her hand.

Villanelle swallows. A breeze tickles the hair along the back of her neck and sneaks inside the building. She should shut the door and use Eve’s keys and whatever Eve did with the magnet to get back inside. 

But. 

Her hands will be full of food. And she had not  _ really  _ been paying attention when Eve let them in. Would that not be suspicious? A woman messing around with a closed door while balancing all that food? Surely it would attract attention. 

Somewhere a fly, caught in a spider’s web, tugs. 

Reaching down, Villanelle grabs a discarded beer bottle, wedges it in the doorframe and lets the door go, propped open but only by an inch. 

***

She is flicking through a back issue of Vogue waiting for their breakfast sandwiches when she feels it. 

A current shoots across her shoulders and her hackles raise. Some silent alarm tripped, sending her body into alert. She looks around quickly, eyes skimming every face in the small shop searching, searching for whatever it was that caught her attention like a pebble dropped in a pond. Her fingers twitch, the glossy pages of the magazine crinkling under her grip. Behind her, someone laughs. She nearly slits their throat with a butter knife. 

Nothing in the immediate perimeter stands out. No danger, no burly muscled man hiding behind a plant or blocking the doorway. Nothing. 

Suddenly, her thoughts jerk back to the building. To the apartment. To - 

“Eve.” 

How long had it been? How long does it take to make a fucking sandwich? Villanelle checks the wall clock and  _ shit  _ it is well past her allotted ten minutes. In fact they are rounding the corner toward a full twenty, plenty of time … 

Tossing the magazine, Villanelle sprints out of the bakery, the frantic calls of the woman behind the counter holding their sandwiches left unanswered. She runs full out, nearly colliding with the door now sealed shut, the beer bottle long disappeared. Her hands paw uselessly at the face, looking for any seam, any purchase to pry it all open before pounding at it with her fist so hard her wrist stings. 

“Fucking shit,” she growls, digging Eve’s keys out of her pocket. Her fingers find the magnet and, gracelessly, she runs it across the metal surface of the door. 

Nothing happens. 

She does this again, and again, scribbling back and forth with it so hard it begins to leave marks. Like magic, she had thought, when Eve did this. Fuck magic. Magic is not real. It is an illusion. Lies. But this? This need now? How she is feeling, how she feels about Eve? There are no lies here. Only full force truth. 

Something behind the metal catches. With a whiny squeak, the door pops open. 

****

The first thing Villanelle notices is the smell. 

Sour and sharp, like fermenting fruit, it leaks into the hallway, catching her nose as she steps off the elevator. So out of place in the musty corridor. Her pulse quickens. Pulling her pistol out of her jacket pocket, she instinctively checks if it is loaded, then lets it drop to her side as she navigates the short distance back to the apartment. 

The door is unlatched, of course, hanging open like a taunt.  _ You were not here,  _ it says.  _ You did not protect her.  _ Anger simmers up. Aligning herself, she gives the door a good kick, hard enough that it almost swings back to catch her in the face as she rushes in and is met with silence. 

Her shoes stick on the cheap linoleum and, looking down, Villanelle quickly discovers the source, embedded deep in the face of a very large, very dead man on the kitchen floor, his blood mixing with the pale amber champagne like watercolors. 

“Eve?” Villanelle calls out, her eyes still trained on the dead man. She does not recognize him. Then again, his face is also now half pulp. Nothing stirs from within the apartment. Eve is gone, then. 

At the realization, Villanelle’s brain slides into focus, like a car sliding into the fast lane. Dropping down to a squat, she starts patting down the dead man, pulling open his coat, searching for hidden pockets, searching for anything, any hint. She finds a passport, generic, fake, and tosses it aside. A roll of Euros. A roll of American dollars. Then, mercifully, finally, a phone. Using the dead man’s hand, she gets passed the Touch ID and navigates to his recent calls, dialing up the last number. It rings once, twice, before connecting. 

“Ah Villanelle,” a voice answers. Her stomach drops. She knows it. “I was wondering when you’d call.” 

“Raymond,” she growls. 

“Oh,” Raymond replies. “Did you lose something?” 

Villanelle only growls. Again. 

“You should know better than to leave your toys out unattended,” he tuts. “You know, I’ve wanted to kill you for a long time. But I think I can wait. Just a little. Because I think I’m going to like killing her in front of you. I think I’ll like that a lot. Two birds, one stone and all that.” 

“I am going to flay you alive,” Villanelle hisses into the phone. “And you will thank me, because it will be such an improvement over your fucking face. You will look like a fucking plucked bird and I will roast you on a spit in front of your ugly fucking children and they will thank me too. For killing the parent who made them so ugly.” 

“Always the charmer,” Raymond says, easily. “Lucky for you, though, I’m feeling generous. I’m going to send you the coordinates of where you can meet us and a time so we can hash this all out. Like old friends.” 

“Put her on the phone,” Villanelle interjects. 

“What?” 

“Put Eve on the phone,” she repeats. 

Raymond hums, unsteady signal crackling with the sound. “No. She isn’t really able to talk right now.” 

Villanelle’s stomach lurches. 

“How do I know she is still alive, then?” 

“I guess you don’t,” Raymond answers. “But if you don’t show up, I’ll definitely kill her. And then I’ll just have to catch up with you later. Your choice, though.”

With three tones, the call drops. Villanelle stares at the phone for a moment, then stands. Stepping over the dead man, she heads to the kitchen counter and grabs the other bottle of champagne. Turning, she steps back over the dead man, then rounds the arm of the couch before dropping onto the cushions, tearing at the foil at the top of the bottle as she waits for the phone to vibrate again. 

  
  


****

The sound of a phone vibrating against the corrugated cardboard coffee table jolts Villanelle awake. She does not immediately know how long she slept, only that it is dark now, the empty champagne bottle having tipped out of her fingers and onto the floor at some point in her unplanned nap. Her head pounds from too much alcohol and sugar and not enough water, like someone is banging together rocks inside her skull. 

The smell is overwhelming now, spoiled alcohol mixed with the faint, sweet smell of rot just beginning to take hold. Villanelle closes her eyes for a long moment, the only sound the faint buzzing of flies that have come to feast. They did not come to retrieve the body, she thinks, belatedly and obviously. She wishes they had. Wishes she could exercise some of that anger, once roiling but now left to cool and congeal like the dead man’s blood on the floor. They must know she is still here and are waiting, like scavengers, for the predator to take their fill and leave. Little do they know she is a scavenger here, too. Sitting on a kill that is not her own. 

The text is a set of GPS coordinates and a time - 9 a.m. Google tells her the coordinates are for a forest way in the north, some kind of reclaimed woodland around an old quarry. She will have to leave soon if she is going to get there and catch a few more hours of sleep.

Her stomach rumbles. And eat. She thinks wistfully of the breakfast sandwiches. 

Rising from the couch, Villanelle drags herself over to the bathroom mirror, her face cast in half light, half dark in the glass. She pulls her hair back into something more utilitarian, then sees the dark shadow of a bruise on her throat, small, just a kiss of a bite mark. She brings a finger up to touch it lightly, then presses harder, searching for the sting, for the memory of it. 

She feels nothing. The cold numbness of the task at hand having already settled in. Her mind empties, but not in a cavernous way. Nothing echoes there. It is full, in its emptiness. 

She heads back to the living room, grabs her gun, the phone, the roll of Euros and Eve’s keys before heading out of the apartment to go find a car. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always come yell at me on tumblr @vaultdweller or, now, on twitter @vaultdwellerke1


	28. Did I really drown?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more! Two more! Two more!

In another time, in another life, there’s a part of Eve that would have, embarrassingly enough, found this  _ thrilling.  _

It’s, of course, the part of her that is inexorably linked to the jealousy that burned, hot and bright, as she watched their agents in the field successfully carry out a mission, taking what she and the other “desk jockeys” had planned and theorized in the, relative, safety of MI6’s offices, and put it into action. Boots on the ground. What she would have given to feel the dust on her skin. Smell the sweat, the adrenaline. Feel the way the hinges of a door would buckle and snap under her boot. 

It’s, of course, also the part of her always focused elsewhere, one someone else’s grass, searching for the green. Looking away, wistfully dreaming about something better, rather than coping with what was right in front of her. 

But now, laid out across the back seat of a moving car, arms and legs bound, rousing to the smell of nothing but the musty stench of her own sweat and blood collected on the inside of a canvas hood. Now, seeing nothing but inky, impenetrable darkness. Now, Eve fully recognizes that part for what it is. 

Fucking stupid. 

So  _ now _ , fully and utterly kidnapped, staring into the void of all her mistakes, the weight of every decision she’s made in the last year collapsing in around her, Eve does what, really, anyone else would do in her situation. 

She screams. 

Well, yells. More like a yodel, really, pitchy and warbly, but threatening, too. A real throat tearer of a noise, primal in a way that touches the deep fear in someone and leaves them hearing the echo of it long after the sound ends. It doesn’t end, though, because shit, Eve has nothing to lose, so she throws in some foot action too, angling herself to kick the back of the driver’s seat like a petulant child. The tendons in her bound wrists and shoulders burn from holding all her weight but Eve just throws more into her restrained rebellion. Like doing “the worm” in reverse, she writhes against the back seat, using her small but mighty abs to rock her hips back and gain momentum. 

Until the world comes to a screeching halt and she pitches forward, rolling, rather unfortunately, into the gap between the front and back seats, a shallow canyon completely insurmountable in her current state. She’s about to scream again when, suddenly, there’s a hand at her throat, thick sausagey fingers compressing her windpipe. She tries, to scream or yodel or whatever, but only manages enough air for a high pitched squeak, like a sad balloon. 

“Don’t ruin this for me,” a voice snaps from the front seat. Eve recognizes it as whoever apprehended her back at the apartment. Caught her at last. “I have … so few things in life that I enjoy. You have no idea. It’s rather sad, really. But I have been looking forward to this for a very long time. And if you make me kill you now, you’ll ruin it.” 

Failing to find sufficient motivation in her kidnapper’s lament, Eve braces to launch another onslaught at the back of his seat. He must feel her tense up, though, because before she can even move her air is gone, completely, his grip ratcheted tight like a vice. Beneath the hood, Eve imagines her face is likely turning blue as she starts to see stars, little pinpricks of light against the blackness 

“Do you want me to gag you, again?” the man tries, changing tacks. “Wouldn’t you rather face death with a little dignity?” 

It’s an appealing offer. So is not having a brute choke her to death in the back of a car and dump her body on the side of the road somewhere in the middle-of-fucking-nowhere-UK. A rather unglamorous end, that would be. Eve thinks she might deserve a slightly better sendoff than that. Only slightly. 

And she’s just so  _ tired _ all a sudden. Funny how that happens when someone’s choking the life out of you. Just really saps your ability to cause a ruckus.  _ Villanelle would still find a way,  _ Eve thinks. It’s a mistake, thinking about Villanelle, because it makes Eve really want to throw hands again and that is just so counterproductive to what she’s going for here. Because fuck her, really. She had one job. Kill Eve. Or, alternately, not get distracted. And she couldn’t even do that. Eve doesn’t know who she’s more furious with - Villanelle, for fucking off to god-knows-where, or herself for trusting her. She settles on both because frankly, she has enough fury to go around right now. 

The man seems to interpret Eve’s silence as agreement and lets up with the choking, tugging at her shoulders to heave her back up onto the seat. At once, air rushes into Eve’s lungs in great, dizzying bursts. There’s really very little dignity happening here, in the back seat, Eve thinks, but at least she isn’t gagged. 

The car eases forward again and Eve, against her better judgement (does she even have judgement, anymore?) lets herself sink into the rhythm of the car’s movement. Unable to see, or hear anything past the pleasing hum of the engine, Eve thinks this could almost pass for a womb. If she was trapped in a womb with someone who was going to kill her. A twin, then waiting to be absorbed by its sibling. Enjoying its few allotted moments of peace. 

It occurs to Eve that her captor must have used something to sedate her. She can’t see out the window, but senses a considerable amount of time has passed. She remembers none of it, though, and the thought chills her. That she could have so easily fallen asleep and never woken up. A candle snuffed out between two wet fingers. It runs through her, like a bolt, and she sits upright, no longer groggy. Wide awake. 

“Why haven’t you killed me?” she asks, mostly to pass the time. “I don’t have anything to give you. I’m not going to tell you anything you don’t already know. Killing me has to be easier than hauling me halfway around the country.” 

“Easier, yes,” the man answers, thoughtfully. His voice is softer than she imagined an assassin’s would be. Though she should know that even assassins can hold softness.  _ Ugh.  _ “But I’ve arranged a meeting with a mutual friend of ours. It’s dramatic, I know, but I so rarely get to roll my sleeves up and have  _ fun _ these days.” 

He sounds it, too, Eve thinks. Like he’s having fun. She thinks of Villanelle, standing over Nadia’s corpse. Of her other kills. She would have felt this way. Like it was all just fun. What a world Eve’s found herself in. Or, rather, what a world she belongs to. 

“This may come as a surprise to you, but Villanelle can be a real pain in the neck,” the man continues. 

“That does sound like her,” Eve replies, her head lolling back against the window. Leaning against it until she can feel the glass rattle against her skull, keeping her alert. 

“She took something from me,” he says. “Something I cared very deeply about. So now I’m going to return the favor. I’ve picked out a nice secluded spot and I’m going to kill you in front of her. So she can see how it feels.” 

Jokes on him, Eve thinks. Villanelle has the object permanence of a kitten wandering off with a ball of string. Eve couldn’t hold her attention for ten precious minutes and this asshole thinks she’s going to mount some sort of rescue? Or that Villanelle would care, even? If she died? Did she even have the capacity? Did he even know her?

_ Psh _ . It’s funny, so she laughs. A low, slow chuckle. 

“And then I’m going to kill her too.” 

Now  _ that’s  _ funny. That this human sausage roll would somehow get the drop on Villanelle. A weasel on steroids. All speed and concentrated, precise power and slippery as a fish. The harder you squeeze, the easier she wriggles out of your grasp. And just when you think you have her, she’ll bend all the way back around and bite your finger off. 

It would take some serious stacking of the deck to kill Villanelle. 

She hopes. 

The surface under the tires changes, from smooth pavement to something rough and gravelly. The car bucks as they, presumably, hop some sort of curb and Eve is nearly jostled back into the gap again, managing - but only just - to not crack her head against the window. They’re riding through mud now, soft and slick from the rain and Eve feels the back wheels start to fishtail as they round a curve. 

“Are we there yet?” she asks with just a hint of childish whining. She thinks about asking if they can stop at a McDonald’s on the way. There are worse last meals. 

“Actually yes.” The car rolls to a stop, gently this time, and Eve hears the driver’s side door open, then the back door opens, near her feet. A cool, wet breeze floats into the car. It smells like moss and mud. They must be out in the woods, somewhere. 

“Get out,” the man gruffs. Eve doesn’t budge. 

“I said get out.” 

“Hey asshole, in case you forgot, I can’t see anything,” Eve bites back, kicking out with her feet like she’s trying to hit a pinata. “I don’t even know where you are.” 

She lashes out again, but before she can connect with his stomach or his nose or anywhere else he grabs both her feet and tugs, dragging her with a long, squeaky squeal of skin sliding across leather. There’s hands at her throat again, working the tie that’s cinched the hood closed. With another tug, and probably some spectacular hat hair, it’s gone and she can see again. Perched at the edge of the seat, she blinks a few times, eyes stinging at the sudden rush of light. 

She was right - they are out in the woods. Tall, looming trees surround them, their tops obscured in a low fog. It’s quiet. Eerily so. Eve again remembers the woods of Connecticut, how they were always bustling and brimming with life. If the woods went still, something was wrong. If the woods went quiet, danger was always nearby. Just out of sight. 

Looking at her captor, she finds him smaller than she expected, with a very British face, a little squished, like a bulldog with its nose pressed against a window. With a little effort, he hauls her out of the car and sets her upright. 

“Alright then. We’ve got a bit of a walk,” he says, nodding toward a path cutting through the trees. “Let’s get to it.” 

With her legs taped together tightly at her thighs, Eve could probably, with a little finesse, waddle her way after the man as he turns toward the forest. Unfortunately for him, though, she’s not really in an accommodating mood. Instead, she calls back to her high school drama class training and lets her legs twist under her, then crumple, landing on her back in a heap in the mud, a passable enough stage fall. The mud puddle squelches under her weight. 

“What the -” the man yells, a dozen-or-so yards away, his voice echoing off the fog and the tree trunks. “Are you kidding me?” 

Staring straight up into the fog, Eve smiles. He’s disgusted by her. She can tell by the way he won’t even look at her, will hardly address her head on. Disgusted, probably, by her association with Villanelle. Well good, she thinks. The feeling is mutual. He’s looming over her, again, suddenly, arms reaching out to hoist her up. Relaxing her arms and thighs, she goes absolutely boneless, transforming into pure, dead weight under his grip. 

“Jesus,” he huffs after managing to drag her a foot through the mud, then two, before dropping her again. Her pants soaked through, Eve starts to shiver, though whether it’s from cold, fear or adrenaline she isn’t sure. Probably a cocktail of all three. 

“Listen, we can do this the hard way, but I’d really prefer the easy way.” 

Eve sits, silent, in the mud. 

“Okay then,” he says, positioning himself behind her and looping his arms through hers to start pulling. “Hard way it is.” 

*****

Twin gashes cutting through the mud mark their progress through the forest. Eve digs her heels in harder as she’s dragged backwards, creating as much resistance as possible. Her shoulders, left to bear all her weight, feel like they’ll dislocate at any second. They scream for mercy inside their sockets. For freedom. Wetness pricks at her eyes, though whether her cheeks are spattered with mud or tears she isn’t quite sure. 

Still, though, the man continues down the path. On either side of them, the trees look on, silent witnesses lined up to watch Eve as she is dragged through their streets. Lined up to watch her execution. Let it never be said she went quietly, Eve thinks, slumping further down until she hears the man behind her grunt in protest. Let it never be said she was led willingly to her own death. 

Soon the trees begin to thin, then give way entirely as the man drags Eve into a field. The soil is rocky and Eve’s feet keep catching, her heels turning up stones like a plow. Then there’s nothing but smooth, sparkling granite beneath them and Eve realizes she’s reached the end of her journey.

With one last gasp of effort, the man swings her around and, for a moment, there’s nothing underneath her at all as she’s dangled over a precipice, a hundred feet above the remains of the old quarry, a pool of murky water at the bottom. The rocks lodged in her shoe take the plunge for her and Eve watches them plummet down, down, down, before she hears the tiny splash. 

Plenty of time to think, during a fall like that. 

“Any funny business,” the man snarls into her ear. “Any at all and that splash’ll be you.” 

Eve’s tempted, halfway, to ricochet her head back and catch him in the nose. Rock her hips back, torso forward and pitch them both over the edge. If she could only find the angle and the courage … 

The echo of a gunshot ends her line of thought. 

“Raymond!” 

She’s swung again, thankfully toward solid ground, and deposited roughly on the ground, face first. Raymond, apparently, then takes a fist full of her hair, jerking her up onto her knees. The barrel of a gun, something high-powered and expensive, presses against her temple, but it doesn’t matter, because striding toward them from the edge of the field is Villanelle. 

That asshole. 

She’s all cold fury, snaking pistol-first along the path Eve’s heels had carved out. She raises the gun again and Eve has a feeling this time it won’t be a warning shot. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Raymond calls, jostling Eve forward a bit, making sure Villanelle can see his own pistol. “That’s close enough.” 

“Get your fucking gorilla hands off her,” Villanelle snarls. Her steps stutter, then freeze, but the gun stays trained on Raymond. Eve gauges the distance, quickly. It would be a tough shot. 

“Now Villanelle,” he says. The fingers in Eve’s hair tighten. “Do you really think you can put me down before I send a bullet through her skull?” 

Across the field, Villanelle adjusts her stance. Her eyes look empty, Eve thinks. Vacant. Like she’s not totally in herself. 

“I’ve wanted to do this for a very, very long time,” Raymond says. He’s almost laughing, so giddy he seems at the prospect. Like it’s Christmas, out here at the old quarry. Or some sort of Black Friday two-for-one special. 

Eve sees it then, with startling clarity. The thread running between the three of them and into the future. She sees the frays, too, the dead ends where they each could have made a different choice, where Eve fought harder or Villanelle was on time. Where Eve stabbed Villanelle, or shot her, or turned her in to the police. Where she never copied those reports, where she quit MI6 to be Niko’s housewife. So many choices she’s burned through like playing cards tossed into the wind, thinking she'll always have more until, suddenly, she’s gone through the deck. The pot’s up for grabs and she has nothing up her sleeve to put down. 

_ This is how they all felt, _ she thinks.  _ All the people I tore through and tossed aside. Or worse.  _ She sees Niko’s face, withdrawn and miserable at the end of their divorce. Kenny, bright and eager to start at MI6 right out of school. Elena, the first day Eve stole her croissant, aghast at the audacity but delighted by it. Amber, who looked like she’d hit the jackpot when she first spotted Eve across the bar. 

And now there’s Villanelle. Who, when offered an open door, when offered true freedom, came barreling after Eve instead. That idiot. That absolutely glorious dummy. 

Eve’s not going to burn through her too. She deserves better. And Eve will give it to her. 

“Villanelle,” she croaks, voice straining under Raymond’s grip on her head. “Villanelle, listen to me. God, for once, please listen to me.” 

Villanelle’s head quirks toward her. 

“Run, Villanelle,” Eve continues. “Run. Turn around. Go back to the road. And get out of here.” 

Villanelle doesn’t budge. In fact, she’s looking at Eve like she has at least fourteen heads.  _ The door’s open, you asshole,  _ Eve wants to shout.  _ You’re free now. You can be whoever you want.  _

“Get out of here!” Eve pleads. Like she’s shooing away a stray dog she can’t take home. “Go!” 

“Eve, I am not going anywhere,” Villanelle responds, finally. “I have this under control.”

“What are you, stupid?” Eve bites back. “He’s going to kill us both. Can’t you see that? Get out of here while you can.”

“She’s right, you know,” Raymond adds. “About the stupid part. And the killing you part. 

“You shut up.” Villanelle takes a step forward, lining Raymond up in her sights. 

_ Fine,  _ Eve thinks.  _ You won’t leave? Alright. I’ll give you a chance.  _

Eve has done a lot of stupid things in her life. She has a whole collection, a menagerie, of stupid decisions, born out of carelessness, misplaced trust, or mistaken beliefs. It would be a fitting sendoff, then, to make just one more. One last hurrah, for old time’s sake. 

While Raymond’s fist is tightly knotted into her hair, Eve realizes she has a bit of leeway. Some wiggle room. Just enough that, if she really tries, she could probably turn her head all the way to the side. 

So she does. Turns her head toward Raymond, throws her body weight into him, and  _ bites _ , straight into the meaty part of his thigh. All 162 pounds-per-square inch focused through razor sharp teeth. Really clamps on, jaw muscles straining with the effort of cutting through skin and muscle. 

Clearly caught off guard, Raymond screams but, miraculously, doesn’t pull the trigger of his pistol, putting an end to Eve’s diversion. Instead, he brings it down squarely across Eve’s head. Stars explode behind her eyes, the cartilage of her nose meeting hard steel as she’s tossed backward. She tries, blindly, to crawl away but can’t seem to find the ground, can’t find purchase because, she realizes with a cold horror — she’s floating. 

Suspended for one, agonizing second, over the edge of the quarry. Her and the water. Nothing but a hundred feet of air between them. 

Eve’s made a lot of stupid decisions. This, she believes, will be her last. 

The second ends and Eve falls. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on Tumblr @vaultdweller or Twitter @vaultdwellerke1


	29. Down, down under the earth goes another lover

Villanelle sees red. 

It erupts before her eyes, spewing through a crack, a fissure cutting deep into her gut, into the place where it sat, simmering. Waiting. Cut off for years. For lifetimes. Building on itself. Pressing ever upward. 

It burns now. Incinerates everything. Rushing outward from her fingertips, from her chest, great red ribbons unwinding from around her wrists, from around her throat. Reaching. Wrapping. Burning. Her vision swims in red, saturated. She dives into it, headfirst, her hands parting it, over and over, but only finding more. Not dispelling, only deepening. 

Villanelle sees red because she is red. 

It coats her hands, her arms, all the way up to her elbows. It spatters across her face. She can taste it on her lips. She sees her fingers, buried in what used to be Raymond’s eye sockets in what used to be Raymond’s face. She sees her fists swing in perfect, imperfect arcs slowed way down and magnified. Sees where the red dried and cracked, only to be coated anew. Layers upon layers of red. Of blood. Thin as molecules but pressing and pressing. Compressing her. Is that all she is, now? Layers and layers of blood. Would she ever see her skin again? 

Raymond is dead. Has been, for some minutes. Maybe hours. Villanelle has lost track. 

Raymond is dead, but Villanelle is not sure how, exactly. There was no fight. No rush. No skill. No predatory pounce, no artful cutting. She did not look into his eyes as she ushered him into death. She will have nothing from this kill, nothing to hold onto, nothing to think about at night. 

Villanelle remembers only Eve. And red. Eve and red. Eve and red. 

And Eve. 

Carefully, she extracts herself from Raymond’s interior, trails of blood and squick falling off her fingers, connecting them like webbing. She rolls up onto the balls of her feet, squatting over Raymond’s chest as she searches the coagulating mess, poking into pockets and what Villanelle assumes are bullet holes until she finds a thin, rectangular mass her muscle memory recognizes as a phone. Pulling it out, she uses Raymond’s limp thumb to unlock it before tucking it into her jacket’s interior chest pocket. 

Turning her attention to the ledge, Villanelle crawls toward the spot where Eve plummeted. Where she was tossed. Her fingers run over the circular droplets of blood mottling the gray granite. Eve was here, just a moment (hour?) ago, but only her blood remains. How Villanelle had wanted it, when this all began. To add to all the rest. To press her into the layers Villanelle had built up. To carry it with her. But this blood is dry, now. No matter how many times she runs her fingers over it, it will not stick to her. 

She peers over the edge, eyes straining. There is a chill in the air. Rain will come soon, and a rolling mist rises up from the water below. She does not see anything but, most importantly, she does not see Eve. Her fingers trace the blood droplets again and again, searching. Searching for something inside herself she cannot find. Villanelle thinks of watching people die, of watching them, their souls, retreat in. She is there, now, or close to it. In the cold place. 

She does, however, see a path down - a set of rickety, tiered stairs winding around the perimeter of the quarry - so Villanelle stands, looming, for a moment, over the edge before setting off, leaving Raymond to rot. 

****

Her initial assessment of the stairs was correct - they are quite treacherous, groaning under her weight from disuse, wood rotted from the moisture. About halfway down, Villanelle descends into the fog, the moisture collecting on her jacket in little pink beads. She is nearly, mercifully, at the end when she slips, the tread of her boot sliding uselessly along wood slicked with moss and mold. She grasps for the wobbling railing, catching it under her arm, the wind knocked out of her with a loud “oof.” Villanelle stays there, for a moment, draped over the side like one of those drooping clocks, catching her breath. The world around her is still and silent. And here, in this cloud, she is alone. 

The fog lifts at the very bottom of the quarry, sitting suspended several feet above the water. There is a narrow strip of shore extending out before giving way to the murky water collected in the basin and Villanelle’s boots sink into the sand as she hobbles out to get a better look. 

There is no wind at the bottom of this quarry and the water, sheltered from even the slightest breeze, sits stagnant. It is jarring, Villanelle thinks. So used to a life full of movement, so full of noise, her mind spins like a car up on a jack, wheels turning and turning but going nowhere. Looking out, Villanelle at first sees nothing but then, maybe 50 yards out, there is a shadow. Something out of place, floating. Unmoving. 

Eve. 

Shedding her jacket, Villanelle lets it drop into the dirt as she steps toward the water, one foot in front of the other, until ice cold water begins to fill her boots and every step sloshes. Soon, she is up to her ankles and cannot hear the sloshing, can only hear the water parting around her knees, breaking apart in little waves, the stillness disturbed. Around her, the water turns from murky gray to red as it crests her hips, flowing outward like the petals of a blooming flower. A great cloud. Years and years and lifetimes of blood.

Villanelle’s boots sink in the silt and each step is a momentous effort as she drudges up debris long settled at the bottom. Her legs are cold and numb and, several times, she nearly falls forward, tripped up by a rock or unexpected hole. The water dances around her ribs and she lets her fingertips trail along the surface, skimming and leaving little crimson paths behind her. Ahead, Eve floats on her back, her soaked curls fanned out in a halo, a wild mane. A river of blood snakes from her broken brow down to a canyon of a gash across her nose and streaking down her chin. Eyes closed, mouth slightly ajar, she floats with a stillness familiar to Villanelle, riding the gentle waves created by her journey. 

“Eve?”

Villanelle’s voice skips over the water’s surface. She cannot breathe suddenly. Like there is something balled up in her throat, choking her. Pushing its way out. She half expects to see her own reflection in the water, a great red flower spilling forth from her mouth, from her throat. Eve does not move, only floats. Villanelle is rooted there, in the muck, several yards away, unable to move closer. It scares her, she realizes. There is fear, there, in how her fingers twitch, how her heart beats hollow against her chest. She is always surrounded by bodies, always making them. They are nothing, like mannequins. Parcels of flesh and bone outgrown their use. 

But Eve. Eve’s body. Eve’s body is different. It is like waking up at the end of a dream and realizing she is back in the Hole. A late spring frost killing things inside her that had only just taken root. Eve, the one person Villanelle had wanted to carry with her. Now the body she must leave behind. But standing here, in the muck, under the fog, standing here is like standing in Eve’s snowglobe, everything settled at the bottom. She had shaken Eve awake, stirred her up into a flurry of a storm. But everything has floated back down again, and no amount of shaking will pick Eve back up again. 

But Villanelle knows she cannot leave Eve here, at the bottom of the quarry for her skin to bloat and fall away. So she pushes aside her fear and reaches out, tenuously, for her, the red from her arms and hands spinning outward, like a thousand tiny strings, connecting with Eve’s own blood. Gently, gently Villanelle cradles a hand under Eve’s head while looping her other arm under Eve’s knees, lifting her up and as out of the water as she can manage before spinning them back toward shore, a deep gash of red rolled out like a carpet leading the way. 

Another lover gone, Villanelle thinks, her footing now sure and steady along the bottom. How many had she done this with, now? Done this to? First Anna. Nadia. Now, Eve. How many more will she send? How long until she joins them all, down under the earth? 

Soaked through with water, Eve is heavier than Villanelle’s muscles remember but still light enough to lift and carry her easily and gently, gently as the water level drops. Villanelle emerges onto the shore one heavy, squishing step at a time. Soaked and chilled, with rivers of water running down her legs, Villanelle drops to her knees and lowers Eve onto the sand, soft as she can muster. As she brushes the hair away from Eve’s face, Villanelle is struck by her own now bare hands, marvels at the peachy pink skin still there under all that blood. Her thumbs trace the angry gash across Eve’s nose, then trail along her cheeks in a mirror image. If this were a movie, now would be the kiss that brings Eve back to life. True love, or something sappy like that. She will not kiss Eve, though. Because this is not a movie. Not even if her fingers tremble with wanting it. Instead, they sit along the curve of Eve’s jaw. 

Wait. 

Villanelle goes still, breath catching in her chest, every nerve in her fingers alight, trying to sense, trying to feel because she swears, she swore .. 

She feels it again, then, the tiny press against her skin, the soft, so soft, way Eve’s throat expands and contracts, the feathery thump of her heart, weak and slow but there. Villanelle leans in and listens, can just make out the short, ragged gasps of air. 

Sitting back on her heels, Villanelle watches Eve for a long moment, disbelief overtaking any relief, washing over her like a king tide. For so long she believed, for so long she had been told her deserved only cruelty and death. For so long she had dealt it back to the world. Surely she did not deserve this, this small, happy thing. Surely it would be taken from her as well. 

Eve coughs, a pained hack as she tries to clear her lungs, but she does not rouse. She is in bad shape, Villanelle knows. She would not make it on her own, even if Villanelle untied her. Villanelle sees them again, the strings, the webs stretched out before her, but now there are only two, pulling, tugging in opposite directions. Villanelle knows she must make a choice, here. Something profound sits at the end of each line. On the ground, Eve wheezes. Blood trickles out of the corner of her mouth. The world snaps into place. A choice, made. 

Villanelle turns back toward the stairs, grabbing her jacket and pulling out Raymond’s phone, still unlocked. Pulling up the encrypted messaging app, she plugs in a number she knows by heart, a number beaten into her during her training, and walks back toward Eve, who is now still again, and growing pale. Setting the phone aside, Villanelle dabs her fingers in the blood free flowing from Eve’s nose. Gathers it, sticky and damp, and dots it at Eve’s temple, just at her hairline. It is not enough blood, not convincing, so Villanelle presses her fingers into Eve’s wound until a fresh gush bubbles out, coating her hands and Eve’s chin. Under her, Eve struggles and chokes as it slides down her throat. 

“Shhh,” Villanelle whispers, painting Eve’s temple with the fresh blood. “I know. I am sorry. But I must do this.” 

Eve quiets, then, her breath coming in shallow, rattling wheezes. Satisfied, Villanelle grabs a bit of dirt to rub in the fake gunshot wound, then lays Eve’s hair over it. Stepping back, she reaches for the phone and switches to the camera, centering Eve in the shot. _ She really does look dead, _ Villanelle thinks, watching Eve through the screen. _ We have ended up here, after all. _

Villanelle taps the shutter, leaving behind a thumbprint sticky with Eve’s blood, then sends the message on its way to the number before hurling Raymond’s phone out into the water. 

The job is done. Eve Polastri is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more left! I can't believe it. Of course, I'm going to say that and never finish it now :P  
As always, come yell at me on Tumblr @vaultdweller or Twitter @@vaultdwellerke1


	30. It’s our time, sweet babe, to break on through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks. Hope you enjoy

Eve falls for what feels like forever. 

Because it is forever, she reasons - her forever, running out. Rapidly unspooling so fast smoke rises up from the reel. So fast she can smell it, smoke and salt and blood. She was right, of course. There’s plenty of time to think, during a fall like this. Plenty of time to feel every second, every foot of it. 

As she falls, the surface of the water transforms into her own reflection, staring up at her larger than life, larger than it should be for how small she feels. It’s her but younger. Her, but if she made the right choices. Did the good things. Eve hurtles toward it at a snail’s pace, toward the thing that separates them, her and this good Eve. 

_ Jesus this is taking a while _ , Eve thinks. No cliff dive, no rope swing or leap off a pier ever took this long before. It’s because she dies at the end, Eve knows. She regrets, suddenly, not asking Villanelle what happens when people die. She would know better than anyone. 

And wasn’t that the point, really, of all of this? Not just biting Raymond, there at the end, but everything else, too. Wasn’t Eve really just tired of living like she’d been shoved in a cage? She was tired of searching for happiness in all the usual places and coming up empty. Maybe her happiness looked like something else. Maybe it hurt. 

Besides, the world had been sending her quite a few signals broadcasting that it would very much like her to piss off forever. Maybe it was time, you know? To listen. 

Would she see her father again? Would he be waiting, ancient frown lines carved into his worn face but eyes so kind? Always so kind. Would he ask about her mother? Would he be disappointed when she has nothing to say?

She thinks of their old summer home in New York, not city, the other way. Upstate, before it too gentrified. Of the endless fields of farmland, the early summer hay tickling her knees as she wandered. Would there be fireflies, wherever she’s going? Would the cicadas hum as the sun hits its zenith? At night, would the peepers crawl out of the ponds and sing to the moon? Eve is struck by a desire to return to those fields. It aches like a bullet hole. She lost something there, something she would like to find again in the grass. 

Around her, the quarry melts away, replaced by a sea of hay rustling in the wind. It’s taller than her shoulders, taller than her head and it lines the path forward like a runway. She’s no longer falling, now, but running forward, full tilt. The reflection in the pool isn’t hers anymore, but her father. He’s bending down, arms outstretched, waiting for her. She runs, faster than she thought her feet could ever carry her. Runs toward him as everything speeds up, like a plane at takeoff. So fast she might run through him, meet him square in the chest and keep going. His arms are so close now and if she concentrates she can almost smell his cologne. 

******

  
  


Eve wakes up. 

And instantly regrets it. 

The pain flares up as her consciousness swims up and breaks the surface. It burns through everything, so much so that Eve, in her groggy state, can’t pinpoint anything. Can’t pinpoint injuries. It all just aches and aches and aches and throbs. She feels tired and dried out and like she’s in a fog, the edges of everything soft and pliant and mushy. 

Against her will, her eyes slide open. 

Her vision is bleary and saturated, but she’s in a hospital of some sort. Not a particularly nice one, either. A yellowing lightbulb hangs over her. The room is filled with yellowed light and is, perhaps, a bit too warm for a sterile environment. Equipment beeps around her. The door to her room is open and from the hall she can hear clips of ... is that Italian? That can’t be right. 

She’s hooked up to an IV and something is clamped on her finger, two points tethering her to the bed. To this room, in wherever-the-fuck she is. Her arms, though, don’t quite work like they should. She tries to raise one up to free herself but finds only new, hot stabs of pain, a top note to the general thrumming ache. No, stop, her body tells her. Don’t do that. Eve doesn’t listen, of course. Swallowing it down, stamping it like stubborn coals, she manages, but only just, to get a grip on whatever-the-fuck is on her finger and pull it off. 

Instantly, the machine to her right goes off, a deafening, maddening tone lancing through her temples. The jig is up. 

_ “No, no, no, no,”  _ a nurse tuts, blowing in like a breeze. She’s a stern, round woman and Eve half expects to get rapped on the knuckles with a ruler for misbehaving. A hand, sturdier than Eve would have thought, presses her back against the pillows and holds her there. The nurse gives her a command in Italian, which Eve guesses translates to “stay put.” She continues muttering while she fusses about with the equipment. Eve hasn’t the faintest idea what she’s saying, but it sounds something like, “What were you thinking, pulling that out? Idiot. Don’t you know what’s good for you?” 

“No,” Eve answers. “No I don’t.” 

The nurse gives her a long, hard look before wordlessly pulling a vial out of her pocket. Producing a syringe seemingly from thin air, she fills the cylinder with a clear liquid, then inserts the tip of the needle into the line connecting to Eve’s IV. 

Almost instantly, the world goes fuzzy again. It might not be a nice hospital, Eve thinks, but at least they have the good drugs. 

*****

“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?” 

There’s someone poking her. 

“Hello?” 

“Jesus,” Eve groans, trying to turn away. “What the fuck?” 

Suddenly, there’s a bright light in her face. She tries to bring her hands up to block it, but finds her muscles are about 30 seconds behind her brain. Her movements are sloppy. She feels like a skipping CD. 

“Oh, good. You are awake.” 

“That’s some bedside manner,” Eve retorts, her eyes cracking open, adjusting to the light. She turns toward the doctor and is struck by how young he is, his black hair slicked back and no signs of wrinkles around his eyes. 

“Ah, I am sorry,” he says, sheepishly. “I do not speak much English.” 

“Where am I?” Eve asks. She flinches, then tugs her arm away testily as he tests her shoulder, twists her elbow left and right. 

“La Spezia,” he answers, absently, giving up on Eve’s shoulder and shining a pen light in her eye. When she blinks and tries to turn away he grabs the side of her head lightly, holding her in place. His thumb holds her eyelid open and if her face didn’t hurt so much Eve would bite him. 

“You should really ask before you touch a person,” she grumbles. “Doctor or not.”

“Sorry,” he says, sounding anything but. “I don’t -” 

“Understand,” they say in unison. 

“No one does,” Eve follows up. Well, maybe not no one. 

After listening to him stumble to find the word for “rotator cuff” Eve waves the doctor off from English and lets him walk her through her injuries in his native tongue. His words flow together like cursive lettering as he points to her head (concussion), nose (broken), shoulders (dislocated), ribs (broken), until his voice drops into the background and she’s overtaken by a sullen sort of disappointment. It sits in her stomach like a stone. She’d done such a good job, cutting all her ties and burning her life down. And now here she is, with no one and nothing. Just the disappointment of being ready for death, only to wake up and find it didn’t take. 

Eager to be anywhere else but confined to a bed for the time being, Eve takes stock of the room, finding nothing of interest except a red envelope, unopened, on the table next to her bed. At the sight of it, Eve’s heart skips. The machine beside her beeps aggressively. 

“For you,” the doctor says, looking up from his clipboard. 

She wants to take it. Wants to tear it open and find something, some proof that she, Eve, still exists in this world. That it was real. All of it. Her fingers twitch with wanting it, which apparently pleases the doctor, proof some reflex somewhere is still in working order. He reaches over, presumably to grab the envelope and hand it to her, bridge the gap, complete the action Eve can’t seem to will into being. 

“Don’t,” Eve snaps. The doctor freezes, fingers hovering above the red paper. He’s just being nice but Eve, Eve isn’t ready yet and she’s worried his touch will shatter the illusion. 

“Okay,” the doctor says, slowly. He turns his attention back to his notes, pen tracing down the page until it hits an empty box. 

“One thing,” he says, holding up a single finger to illustrate. “What is your name?” 

Eve Polastri, she nearly says. Another reflex still in good order. She stops herself, though, catches the words at the top of her throat because … 

Because there’s actually nothing that says she has to  _ be _ Eve Polastri anymore. No job, no spouse or kids, no legally binding obligation to continue to wear the same skin she’d had on since she married Niko and kept his name in the divorce because she was too lazy to change the paperwork. That wasn’t a particularly good reason to be someone. And if she was being honest with herself, Eve Polastri wasn’t quite working for her, as of late. She was a bit tight in the shoulders, a little threadbare between her thighs. Underneath, though, was a shiny new skin if she could just break through those dead layers. 

“Eve,” she answers. “Eve Park.” 

The doctor nods, scribbling the name down before slipping back into the hallway. The door closes behind him and Eve is alone once more, the machine’s steady tone measuring out her new life in heartbeats and breaths. Would she hear it forever, the steady thump of her heart? Each one a new inch of string unraveled from the spool. She already has, heard it for forever that is. This new forever on the other side of the glass.

The envelope pulls at Eve’s mind like a gravity well, collecting and twining the tendrils, spinning it like cotton candy on a stick. She reaches toward it, arm, hand, fingers all hesitant, a baby bird, a fledgling just stretching its wings. She’s teetering on the end of the branch, not ready to jump but not quite willing to stay. That was always her problem, wasn’t it? Eve Polastri’s problem was she was never willing to jump, no matter how much the branch shook under her, swaying in the wind. No matter how strong her wings grew, she didn’t trust them. Not until something came and pushed. It was Villanelle, really, who pushed Eve Polastri into flying. But Villanelle isn’t here now. Eve Park will have to make this leap on her own. 

So she does, lifting the envelope off the table, bringing it closer, examining it. She’s struck, immediately, by the hint of  _ La Villanelle.  _ Even with a broken, bandaged nose Eve smells it. Feels it, really. Like a heady caress. Her eyes slide close and for a second, for one, too short second, it’s like Villanelle is there. Watching her. 

The machines begin to beep aggressively again, string unspooling faster and faster, stretching outward. Isn’t that just like her, like Villanelle - to grab onto something precious and pull? 

Carefully, Eve slips her finger along the envelope’s edge. The paper is heavy and slightly rectangular in shape, with the look of a card plucked out of the back of a convenience store. Gently, gently she slides the card out … 

And laughs. God, she  _ laughs.  _

What greets her is a garish splash of color and glitter. It’s clearly meant to be a child’s birthday card, except the age has been scribbled out, replaced with Villanelle’s own loopy writing so it reads “Congratulations! You’re <strike>five</strike> dead!” Shaking her head, Eve lets the card fold open, wary that some sort of glitter bomb or obnoxious singing recording lurks inside. 

But all that greets her is a printed out photo of herself, caught unaware. The headshot tucked into Villanelle’s contract on her life. Behind it is another photo printout, this one clearly taken on a cellphone, of herself on her back, drowned, nose bloody and what looks like a gunshot at her temple. It’s convincing enough to give Eve a pause. This is what an out-of-body experience feels like, she thinks. The old Eve is dead. The job complete. 

Behind the photos is a note from Villanelle. Eve reads it slowly, eyes tracing each pen stroke. 

“ _ When you are ready, come find me. I am waiting for you. (But do not make me wait too long). Love, V.”  _

Eve’s eyes are wet. She blinks, the beads pulled apart by her eyelashes. The disappointment, the despair from earlier is blunted. Because, there isn’t nothing here. There isn’t no one. Villanelle is here. They lay together, separate but under the same sky. And that’s something. 

That’s something. 

******* 

It takes two weeks. 

The days drag on like a moored boat being pulled back out to sea. First, they wean Eve off the good painkillers. She takes back anything nice she ever said about this hospital. It’s shit. 

The nurse is nicer now, though. Now that Eve isn’t trying to destroy her precious equipment. Eve asks her, once, for a mirror. Mimes, really, but they’re starting to understand each other now. There’s no mirror, so the woman takes out her phone - an ancient thing but new enough to have a selfie camera. The view is unflattering at the best of times, but Eve doesn’t recoil when her own face blinks back at her. Instead, she’s struck by the light, puffy scar bisecting the bridge of her nose. She touches it, gingerly, prodding where the new skin starts to come together. Two fault lines held together by dissolvable glue. Eve can tell already that with time, it will fade into a shadow of what it is now. She likes it, though. Oddly. She thinks Villanelle will too. 

“I know,” the nurse says. In Eve’s mind, at least. “I’m sorry about your shitty face.” 

“You should see the other guy,” Eve replies casually, still poking at the scar. The nurse gives her a full, hearty laugh before taking back her phone. Neither of them understand the other, but some bad jokes, it seems, are universal. 

Her body heals into a new version of itself, one that tries and tests her, makes her earn every mundane milestone. It’s twelve days before she can get to the bathroom and back without stumbling or wheezing or needing a break halfway through. The nurse finds her just as she’s climbing back into the bed and then there’s hands on her, a flurry of judgmental tutting like a mother bird. That night, Eve swears the sheets pulled over her are tucked in just a cinch tighter to keep her from escaping. 

It takes fourteen days for the fire alarms to all go off at once, a cacophonic chorus that has the entire hospital buzzing like a beehive. Nurses and doctors rush past her door, some helping hobbling patients or wheeling them toward the exit, some trying to pinpoint the source of the alarm. Everyone yelling in Italian, the language contrasting sharply with the blaring sirens and the clack of heels against tile. No one comes to fetch Eve, though. She closes her eyes for a moment, hides in the curtain of sound. Her time in this liminal space is over. It’s time, now, to return. 

Twisting her hips, she lowers her feet down onto the floor, then stands. Her feet are steady under her, steadier than they have been her entire stay. At the foot of her bed there’s a bag. Inside are clothes, not hers but in her size. A striped sweater. High-waist, light wash jeans. Eve sheds her hospital gown and slips them on, her shoulders, her hips protesting but she manages. She feels like a new person, in real clothes. Her skin relishing something that isn’t the texture of a paper towel. She gives the room one last, long look, then exits out into the chaos. 

Around her, people are still running. Yelling. But Eve slips through them unnoticed. Parts the sea of movement and energy. She doesn’t know where she’s going, but she’s moving anyways. Something is calling her. It tugs like a fly at the end of a spider’s web. 

After winding through corridor after corridor, she ends up at an alarmed emergency exit.  _ There’s already plenty of alarms going off,  _ Eve thinks as she pushes through the door.  _ What’s one more?  _

In contrast to the chaos inside the hospital, the parking lot in the back is calm and nearly empty. Save for a bright red convertible about 20 yards out, a woman leaning against the hood. 

Eve walks toward her.  _ I won’t run,  _ she tells herself.  _ I won’t run.  _ Even as her feet pick up their pace. A warm breeze floats by. It’s been so long since she’s seen the sun, and Villanelle is there. She tips her sunglasses down her nose to look at Eve, tips her head slightly at the sight of her. 

“Turns out I am shit at waiting,” Villanelle says. 

“Yeah,” Eve replies. “Me too.” 

They stand, watching each other, an arm’s length apart. Behind them, Eve can hear the muffled fire alarms blaring into the Italian afternoon. As shit as she claims to be at waiting, Eve can tell Villanelle is trying. Fidgeting with unspent, manic energy. Poor thing, Eve thinks. Best to put her out of her misery. 

So Eve grabs her by the jacket and kisses her. 

She probably tastes like shit, she thinks, belatedly, but Villanelle doesn’t seem to mind. There’s fingers in her hair, tugging her closer. Like Villanelle wants to crawl inside her. Which is great, except Eve’s nose is still healing and breathing is a thing she still needs to do. 

“Easy girl,” Eve laughs, pulling back slightly. Villanelle hovers, looking, searching. Her nose is sun-kissed and Eve imagines her laying out on the beach or wandering through vineyards. She traces the scar on Eve’s nose. 

“I like this,” she murmurs. “It is very sexy.” 

“I thought you might.” 

Then, Eve’s being ushered to the passenger side of the car, the door thrown open as she’s helped into the seat. “What service!” Eve remarks, smirking and Villanelle only winks, a turn of the key bringing the humming sports car to life. With a protesting squeal from all four tires tires, Villanelle throws the car into reverse, then peels out of the parking lot and onto a cramped street. Soon, though, they’re pulling onto a nearly empty highway, the road and mountains stretching out before them in a way that feels infinite. 

“So what’s next?” Eve asks, watching as loose tendrils of Villanelle’s hair twist in the rushing wind. 

“What would you like?” Villanelle counters, eyes darting between her and the road. “We are a team now. Partners.” 

“Villanelle, you kill your teammates.” 

“Yes,” she drawls. “But I have already killed you. Technically. We have done the hard part. But I think I would like to try something new.” 

“Okay,” Eve says. Around them, the Italian countryside whizzes by. “We could go to Alaska?” 

Villanelle barks out a laugh into the winds. The car swerves in a way that sends a thrill lancing right through Eve’s stomach. 

“We could,” she says. “But I do not think so. I do not look so good in flannel. Lumberjack does not suit me.” 

“Oh I disagree,” Eve says, fingers reaching for Villanelle’s across the seat. She finds them and knots them together. Her attention drifts to the blurring landscape. To the files she ripped from the MI6 databases. A treasure trove of leads. All waiting for her. 

“I was thinking,” she starts. Villanelle’s eyebrows raise, expectantly. “I was thinking we might … go after them. The Twelve. MI6. Make them pay, you know? Really fuck them up. I stole all those files. Might as well put them to use.” 

Villanelle’s lips curl into a grin. The engine roars a little louder as she presses on the accelerator. 

“I like how you think,” Villanelle says. “We will get them all. Make them hate us.” 

“Yeah,” Eve nods. “I think it’s our time to be hated.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. 
> 
> Thank you to anyone who has read this, gave it a kudos, commented, tweeted about it, messaged me about it, talked to me about it, bookmarked it, or even thought about reading it. I think about where I was when I started this in October and how much has changed but it's really been something, having this constant with me. This is the first piece of my own, non-work writing I've ever really finished. At times it was easy, at times it was hard, but at all times it was worth it. 
> 
> Keep your eyes open for a sequel. And keep your eyes open for updates to my other work now that this is done. 
> 
> As always, you can find me on Tumblr @vaultdweller or Twitter @vaultdwellerke1

**Author's Note:**

> Stay tuned for more!


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